Tea with the Devil
by Hikari no Chibi
Summary: Modern Day AU. Mr. Gold had no patience for anyone, least of all the incompetent blonde responsible for his morning tea. Rich men seldom needed to. But when the unwitting Belle French accidentally inherits the unpleasant task of bringing tea to the devil, will Mr. Gold remain as he is or will the beauty tame her beast?
1. Chapter 1

_I'm tired of the Rumbelle AUs taking the Greek drama approach, wherein Gold / Rum loves Belle passionately from a distance, from almost the first sentence of the fic. This is going to be a modern-day AU, drawing on the entire Rumbelle story-line. Get ready for bastard-Gold and a very unamused Belle who fall in love slowly, over time. There is no Dark One curse in this continuity, but I really think you're going to enjoy it anyway._

Mr. Gold was not a man who liked to be kept waiting. But despite his constant rages and generally poor disposition, wait he did. He waited for the closing bell. He waited for the opening bell. He waited for any combination of numbers and charts. He waited for his morning tea.

For the tea, it seemed, he waited a little longer every day since the feeble little intern who usually handled it had announced her pregnancy to the office last month. If she thought the little parasite would excuse her laziness, she had another thing coming. The woman was blonde, petite, and entirely replaceable. Ashley Boyle. Or was it Boyd? It didn't matter, he decided, and dashed off a quick email to his receptionist, Mary Margaret, demanding that the little tart be let go.

In the back of his mind, Gold knew Mary Margaret would parley the request into a reassignment of duties and probably set the girl up with a plush job collating, well out of his way until the nebulous uncertainty of maternity leave claimed her. In the mean time, Gold found himself no closer to his morning ration of Earl Grey. 8:25 AM. His weekly conference call to Seoul started in 35 minutes, and he dreaded the thing.

"Mary Margaret, send up a tea service," he said in a rough Scottish burr via the office intercom. No response. "Dammit woman, I haven't got all day to wait about while you paint your nails and double-book my schedule. Mary Margaret!" Still nothing. Double-damn. Despite him raving like a wild beast half the time, the receptionist had a spine of steel that he begrudgingly respected. She would be too difficult to replace, at any rate, because her careful juggling of Gold's numberless, faceless women required a degree of tact not common among competent, intelligent human beings.

If she wasn't at her desk, it meant one of a half-dozen wild fires left burning from the night before had called her away. Allowing her the freedom to decide which emergencies required her personal attention served him well so far. A compromise, then. He could fetch his own damn tea this once, and she would explain herself in full or face the prospect of another 80 hour work week. Finding ways to make people useful at any hour was a particular specialty of Anthony Gold's.

Walking slowly, cane in hand, through his personal waiting room and out to the executive lobby reminded him why this was intern work. Regina Mills, Mallory Le Ficent, David Nolan, and Graham Humbert all had executive offices looking out onto the landing of this floor, and he didn't dare lean too heavily on the loathsome crutch. The pain in his mangled leg felt unreal under the burden of more weight than usual, but if Gold scowled a little more deeply or growled insults a little more harshly at the scurrying insects unfortunate enough to cross his path, no one noticed.

Seeing Astrid Nova, flustered by his sudden and unexpected presence, drop the bundle of papers in her charge squarely into one of the building's decorative fountains sealed the deal. He was in no mood to brave the Gold, Mills, Nolan & Le Ficent Inc. cafeteria, a raging sea of incompetence today. Fortunately, Gold knew of a place a few stories down where a quiet cuppa might be obtained.

One of the few joys Mr. Gold allowed himself was his collection. The man collected everything: antiquities, artifacts, oddities, favors, money, property, women. These hobbies coalesced quite nicely. As the sole owner of the building that housed GMNL Inc., Gold found himself at his leisure to convert three floors of the high-rise to a museum and gallery space, open to the children of the office daycare program, families of foreign investors, the occasional tourist, and home to a bevy of high-end office functions. Of course, the whole thing served as a massive tax write-off, which didn't hurt either.

To Gold's knowledge, only his curator – a blowhard Frenchman who insisted on being called "Gaston, just Gaston" – knew that the collection belonged exclusively to him. That suited him just fine, and it gave him a small, quiet staff lounge in which he might obtain some caffeine before the inevitable headache of South Korea.

Finally free of prying eyes, Gold leaned a little more heavily onto his cane and headed toward the museum's staff lounge. He didn't quite make it. Right in the middle of his rather large collection of pre-Colombian carvings, he spotted "Gaston, just Gaston" with his tongue down some blonde woman's throat and his hands running up her skirt. No, not just some blonde woman. Anthony Gold's Saturday night blonde woman. Gold saw red.

When Archie Hopper handled the H.R. fall-out later that day, he would hear the scene described as "hellish" and Mr. Gold as "ze fire-breathing imp" who could "go crawl back onto ze walls of Notre Dame where he belongs."

South Korea could wait. Gold needed a drink. Earl Grey and Aberfeldy would not mix well, but Gold wasn't sure that mattered. Didn't he keep these girls in enough Tiffany's trinkets, designer gowns, and gossip columns to ensure they wouldn't embarrass him on his own property?

He stormed into the staff lounge so furiously that he missed the startled look on the face of Gaston's newest hire. The shock caused her to drop the fine china cup in her hand, and the sound of clattering porcelain finally claimed Gold's attention. He glared daggers.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. You surprised me. Can I help you?" The girl was already bent over, cleaning up the mess. "Oh, no... it's chipped." Finally looking up, she showed him the damaged cup.

"It's just a cup," he snapped, taking stock of the woman. She wore an unfashionable knee-length skirt and loose sky blue cardigan with her hair pulled back into a somewhat messy half-bun, and there was a paint smudge on her cheek. All in all, not much of a looker.

Then Mr. Gold took a breath. Wasn't Hopper always telling him to take a deep breath before firing someone? He exhaled slowly, then inhaled again. Mr. Gold smelled tea.

"Is that Earl Grey?" the foul-tempered man prodded, slightly calmer.

"Oh, uh.. yes. It is. Would you like a cup?" the girl offered, smiling nervously.

"I'd bloody well like the whole pot," he grumbled. But he sat down at the small staff table anyway, and waited.

For her part, Belle wasn't sure what to make of the man. He was older than her 28 years, but not overly old, and he wore a suit. A _very_ _well_ tailored suit. She had never seen him before in her scant two weeks working for Gaston on a rather large restoration project, but he looked a bit agitated. He didn't look dangerous, she decided. Just very, very thirsty. Mind made up, she fetched the porcelain pot and two fresh cups, leaving the poor chipped soldier forgotten in the sink.

"Do you people always have little tea parties down here when you're supposed to be working?" he quipped while she poured.

Belle smiled. "Ha ha, no. I'm afraid not. The Energy and Efficiency Committee is encouraging everyone to switch to reusable cups instead of paper. I happen to prefer loose leaf to bagged tea, so this seemed..." she trailed off.

"Logical," Gold nodded, taking a sip. He noticed the woman brewed a cup strong enough to kick a donkey without over-boiling the leaves, and he liked it.

"Oh, not at all. We're all mad here. Milk or sugar?" she offered, grinning.

Gold loosed his devil's advocate smirk at that. "Honey and lemon?" he replied.

She quirked a fine eyebrow at him, a glimmer of a giggle in her eyes, and got up to fetch a lemon wedge from her personal stash in the fridge. Plucking the generic plastic honey bear from the cupboard, Belle returned looking like the cat that caught the canary. She plopped them down unceremoniously in front of him and said, "Help yourself."

Oh yes, Gold thought. This would do quite nicely. "You will prepare a tea service and deliver it to my office each morning between 8:15 and 8:30. Do not be late, do not skip the odd hazy Monday. Are we clear, Miss...?"

"French," Belle replied, nodding. "Annabelle French." So he was her boss, in some capacity. Or thought he was. Interesting. "And you are..." she continued.

Gold's eyes lost their humor at that. "Don't play coy with me, it's not a good color for you. You know very well who I am." The genuine confusion in her blue eyes calmed him slightly. Still, Mr. Gold was not accustomed to explaining himself, and he stood up on shaky legs to leave. She was a clever girl, she'd figure it out.

"I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early Miss French."

"Just Belle is fine," she replied, handing him his cane from where it had fallen on the floor.

"And try to see if you can't at least look a bit professional tomorrow, dearie. I don't need a ragamuffin parading in and out of my office for the world to see." Genuine confusion was replaced by genuine hurt in her eyes, and Mr. Gold hobbled away. He'd make it in time for South Korea after all, and have Mary Margaret send the usual break-up package to Miss Saturday Night.


	2. Chapter 2

_I got a couple of PMs about the setting – yes, this story is aiming for a NYC / east coast vibe. No, there's probably not going to be anything explicit in the setting and detail. Somehow, naming it seems less fairy-taleish to me. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, if we come to it. Most of the action right now is interpersonal or internalized, so it's not especially relevant._

The first time he'd insisted on her bringing him tea each morning, Belle half-thought the well-dressed mystery man was joking. Three emails from the personal secretary of Mr. Anthony Gold, a partner in the firm that signed her pay check every two weeks, set the record straight. No, he was not joking. Yes, that was the oft-maligned Mr. Gold – in the flesh. No, tea service was not what they were paying her for but Mary Margaret could see to it that a small bonus made its way into her pay check once a month. Yes, it was rude of him to call her a ragamuffin.

To Belle, it seemed like a very small inconvenience with a fairly large reward. Mary Margaret sent down a $300 pre-paid credit card that same day so she could pick up any necessities for the following morning, and she synced their calendars so Belle wouldn't waste her time on days when Mr. Gold traveled or, if the whim took him, chose to work from home. Call her crazy, but getting a little face-time with one of the people responsible for keeping her on the payroll did not sound like an all together terrible idea.

She liked the mid-sized museum very much, but her contract only lasted for 2 years until the largest of her restoration work was scheduled to conclude. A recent recipient of her M.A.C. (Master of Art Conservation), the only option to improve her station was by networking with the large metropolitan museums and collecting a sheaf of glowing reference letters. If pouring tea for Mr. Gold was what it took, well... she could do worse, ragamuffin or not.

Belle lost herself a little when she entered the small Czech tea shop tucked away in the lower East end of town. The smell of honey bush and ginger overwhelmed her, so she spent a few moments just soaking it all in while a very out-of-place Gogol Bordello song drifted through the shop from the back room.

In the end, she bought three stainless steel travel mugs, a few variations on the standard loose-leaf, and more of the pungent Earl Grey he seemed to enjoy. A quick stop at a neighboring specialty foods store, and she had a very large jar of organic honey and lemons to last the week. The pre-paid card still had quite a bit of money left on it, but Belle tucked it away with her receipts for later. She assumed the lemons and tea leaves would need re-stocking sooner or later.

Her first few mornings went by quietly and without incident. Belle made it her priority to deliver Mr. Gold's hot mug of tea, made just the way he liked it, each morning before she began the painstaking task of reproducing oil on canvas masterpieces. As a result, her clothes looked a bit more pristine, her hair remained un-mussed, and her face stayed clean. The final product must have pleased, or at least not displeased, Mr. Gold because he never commented on her looks or attire again.

In fact, he never commented. Period. Belle did not see him when she dropped off his morning cuppa with Mary Margaret and collected his mug from the previous day (or previous two days, if he forgot and left one in a meeting room somewhere). She spoke pleasantly to Mary Margaret for a few minutes, handed off the beverage, and then retreated back into her own little world.

Her pride and joy stood about 12 feet tall and 20 feet wide, or it would if the canvas hadn't been lost in the annals of time and moldy basements. The painting was a remnant of an unknown Neoclassical French master, dated to approximately 1780 – just prior to the French Revolution. Who knew what the artist could have become, had it not been for Madame Le Guillotine and Robespierre.

At any rate, the work was referenced in numerous indexes and inventories over the years, all of which described it as a veritable orgy of nymphs and satyrs. Pieces of the canvas featuring particularly graphic content had been cut away and set into smaller frames, disbursed to private collections in God only knew where. Other portions of it showed burn marks from an errant flame. Still other segments had quickly been edited for content, and misshapen fig leaves dotted more than a few genitals.

Belle's duty was two-fold. To uncover and preserve what remained of the original piece, and to pour over records and photographs to reconstruct as much of the original work as possible. In the end, the museum wanted a clean, fully documented original painting and a full-size reproduction of the complete work, as it might have been in the late 1700s. If she had to invent figures for filler, they wanted a list of reasons as long as her arm backing it up.

It was no small task, but Belle knew she could handle it. Besides, when it became too daunting she could always work on one of the smaller restoration projects or help Gaston care for the several hundred historical weapons on display in the museum's main atrium. Weaponry, particularly swords, were Gaston's specialty. He fancied himself something of a dashing swordsman, but Belle suspected he fell somewhere between squire errant and fop in terms of real skill. Then again, what did she know? Her expertise lay in oil and canvas.

It took her entirely by surprise when, one predictable Tuesday afternoon, Mary Margaret sent her an email flagged as urgent.

_Belle,_

_He's in a mood, heads are going to roll soon. Will you please do me a favor, just this once, and run up something decaffeinated? A whole pot, if you can. He really might have lost it this time – he threw the cup one of the interns brought him at her head. Thank God it was just paper and plastic, Hopper's going to have a fit._

_I owe you one!_

_M.M._

Belle liked Mary Margaret. Really, she did. She sighed and typed out a quick reply:

_Be there in about 10 minutes._

_B.F._

Looking down at her paint-flecked smock, wrinkled slacks, and low heels, Belle felt like she would be walking naked into a war zone. Maybe Gaston wouldn't mind if she borrowed a suit of full-plate? But of course she couldn't actually do that, no matter how appealing it sounded. Instead, she summoned all of her bravery, plopped some honeybush-rooibos into a tea ball, and assembled all of her porcelain soldiers on an improvised tea tray. (It was supposed to be part of an 1850s silver-smithing display, but closer examination had shown it to be a cunning forgery.) She did not notice the chipped cup make its way onto the tray.

When she arrived in the executive lobby, she could hear Mr. Gold shouting from outside his office. His brogue seemed thicker, though the exact words coming out were muffled through several layers of glass and concrete. Belle took a deep breath and kept moving. At the very least, she knew that herbal tea and art must be pretty far removed from whatever had stirred the agitated man's ire.

"I'm here, Mary Margaret."

"Thank God," the pale woman gasped, phone set half-cocked and three little red lights flashing for callers on hold. "Mr. Gold, your afternoon tea is here," she said softly into the intercom.

"If you're offering me pigswill again..."

"It's Belle," Mary Margaret offered in way of an explanation.

"Who?"

"Miss French. The Earl Grey girl. I asked her to make a special trip."

"Good. Send her in," snapped Gold, and the line went silent.

"He's all yours," grinned Mary Margaret apologetically.

"Goody," muttered Belle. She was not looking forward to having a full tea pot hurled at her head this afternoon. She took a deep breath, plastered a smile to her face, and walked through Mr. Gold's office door for the first time.

The man Gold was screaming at, a cowering, beet-red little man who Belle thought looked painfully shy, took the break in conversation to excuse himself and escape. He nearly bowled Belle over as he hurried out the door.

"Ah, Miss French. You are looking as unkempt as ever, I see. Is that a paintbrush sticking out of your hair, dearie?"

Belle blushed. It almost definitely _was_ a paintbrush, and it just figured that she would forget something obvious like that. Still, she wouldn't be cowed. "Mr. Gold," she replied, setting down the tray on the side of his desk. "You do realize that you pay me to paint and not to make tea, right?"

"Do I?" He genuinely seemed not to know what she did, as though being his delivery girl must be the sum of her worldly ambitions and talents.

"Yes," she said strongly, "you do." And with that, she began to pour.

"This is not Earl Grey, Miss French."

"No, it isn't," she paused. "It's an herbal tea, from Africa. Mary Margaret thought you might benefit from something decaffeinated."

Gold completely stunned her when he let out a healthy belt of laughter and indicated that she should continue to pour. As Belle handed him the cup, she realized a few seconds too late that it was chipped.

"Trying to bleed this old rock to death, Miss French?" he teased, taking a careful sip.

"Oh, uh... I'm sorry. I didn't realize, it must be the one I chipped that day in the break room. Mr. Gold, if you don't mind me asking, what were you doing all the way down there that day anyway?"

Gold added a bit of honey to his cup and motioned for Belle to sit. She felt incredibly vulnerable, sitting a little lower than his eye level in her less than glamorous clothes, but she met his critical gaze anyway. Sometimes bravery is a quiet tea for two, she thought ruefully, and then giggled because, in reality, it was just tea for one.

He looked up from his cup and was pleasantly surprised by the bright color and clarity of Belle's rather fine sapphire blue eyes. "Do I need an excuse to visit my collection, Miss French?"

"No, of course not. It just seems strange that..."

"If you must know, I was looking for a quiet respite and a spot of tea."

In for a penny, in for a pound. "Gaston says you only ever come down to spy and fire people."

"Gaston is a twit," Gold spat back. Belle got the impression she might have pushed her luck too far. "Now, Miss French -"

"Really, you can call me Belle, Mr. Gold."

"Miss French," he insisted. "This has been lovely. You will repeat the performance at 3 PM each afternoon unless Mary Margaret tells you otherwise."

"Mr. Gold, I don't -"

"Yes, yes. I pay you to paint, all of that nonsense. But the point is, I do pay you. So next time bring me green tea with ginger and an extra cup for yourself."

"Sir?"

"Did I stutter, Miss French?"

Belle shook her head no.

"Good. Then get back to whatever it is I do pay you for, and tell Mary Margaret she can stop holding my calls. Good day."


	3. Chapter 3

Mr. Gold found the society of Miss Annabelle French more and more tolerable with every passing day. Certainly, their three o'clock tea came with its own set of growing pains. If, for instance, he made her sit and sip a cuppa in silence while he shuffled through papers and answered emails, she tended to get a bit fidgety. He _hated_ fidgeters.

When he said as much, she responded that he had better let her go, then, because "the fidgets" were not subject to his control. They'd glared a bit after that, but the little fire-cracker hadn't backed down. The next day, his tea tray included a pencil and small pad of paper. He worked in silence, just to spite her. She, to his chagrin and amusement, picked up the pad of paper and drew. The fidgets were not mentioned again.

On the other hand, if he possessed the wherewithal to pause the never-ending train of bureaucracy and actually spoke to the woman, she proved herself invariably articulate on any number of subjects. Mr. Gold didn't mind the odd foray into literature or film, but her eyes shone brightest when they discussed travel and antiquities.

More often than not, they bantered casually about something mundane. He could appreciate a wit, especially one that was clever without being cynical or shrewish.

Regina noticed his afternoon visitor about 2 weeks into their new routine. Gold recalled the moment with vivid clarity.

"Finally enjoying a little afternoon delight, Rumple?" Her lewd smile spoke volumes, not that the words needed much in the way of subtext.

Calling him Rumple was bad enough, it was something the middle-management whispered behind his back – meant as a jibe to tease a rumple-legged cripple. Regina was the only one who ever called him that to his face. Anthony had heard it all: hobble-foot, spindle-shanks... For that alone, Regina would have found herself back on Gold's short-list of people to pummel. But to imply that he had somehow compromised Miss French? That irked him, and badly.

It took him the space of two sentences to bite back at the old witch. Her affair with Graham Humbert was an open secret amongst the four partners, but it would have sent every auditor and antitrust lawyer in the city into a panicked frenzy if the gossip columns caught wind of it.

Gold knew his own contracts and trades were all iron-clad and on the level, but he had no doubt that Regina would fall to pieces if someone examined her finances a little too closely. She would never embezzle from the company directly, but what she did in her own personal ventures left much to be desired.

With Regina back in her place and Miss French blissfully ignorant of the entire exchange, Gold fell into a comfortable routine.

8 AM – news, overnight reports, voice mail from idiots, brief Miss Blanchard. 8:30 – business as usual until interrupted by idiots, phone calls abroad, assign work to the paralegals, drink tea. 9 AM – send out orders, finalize deals, answer questions from idiots in accounting, _re_-finalize deals, consider prudent trades. 9:30 – field complaints from Hopper, prepare for a sea of endless meetings. 10 AM to eternity – meet with clients and investors, try not to scowl too much. Half past eternity – working lunch. 1:00 – more of the same. And so on and so forth, until 3, when Annabelle French would wander in like a little lost gypsy with a loose smock, a quiet smile, and a pot of liquid gold.

He over heard her, one day near the beginning of everything, talking to Mary Margaret on her way back down to the museum.

"I'm so sorry you got strong-armed into this, Belle," Mary Margaret was saying.

"It's not so bad," his little gypsy-girl replied. "I don't mind the break from the workshop and Gaston's constant show-boating. He's even pleasant, when he wants to be."

"Does he _ever_ want to be?" Mary Margaret replied, throwing in a hint of theatrics to tease.

"Oh, perish the thought," giggled Miss French. "But he's really not so bad when he's not telling me that I'm ugly."

Had he said she was ugly? It seemed unlikely, given her genuinely pretty eyes and small, confident smile. No, she must have heard him wrong. At any rate, he would be careful not to repeat the _faux pas_ again. Certainly, as long as she was punctual and polite, he could endeavor to be the same.

Except, of course, she wasn't punctual. At least not today.

Mr. Gold had looked at the very expensive timepiece which graced his large, oak desk several times. 3:00 strolled on by, followed in close succession by 3:05, 3:08, 3:10 and 3:13. At 3:20, Mr. Gold was done waiting.

"Miss Blanchard, is Miss French planning on gracing us with her presence today?" he inquired over the intercom.

"Oh, uh... She came by this morning. I'm not sure why she's late. I can email her..."

"Don't bother," Mr. Gold snapped. It was entirely unreasonable of her to upset his schedule like this. How was he supposed to get any work done now? With a storm in his eyes and a scowl on his face, Gold picked up his cane and marched purposefully down to the elevator. If it occurred to Mary Margaret to comment, she let her better judgment win out and didn't say anything.

He didn't make it past the museum atrium. Sure enough, there was Belle – tea tray in hand, no less – looking very frustrated with Gaston hot on her heels.

"Annabelle, I told you I am sorry. Don't have ze cow."

"Sorry doesn't cover sending a medieval crossbow bolt though the center a 200 year old masterpiece. You could have killed me!"

"It was miss-fire! And I would not call zat no-name scrap of canvas ze masterpiece."

"It shouldn't have been in the workshop loaded."

"Annabelle!" Gaston caught her by her left shoulder, easily turning her to face him. The man had a roughly a foot of height and 80 pounds of muscle on the girl, and she seemed a bit frightened by his overwhelmign proximity. Still, Gold thought that his Belle looked scrappy. If she didn't bring the tea tray to bear on the idiot's rock-hard head, Mr. Gold might have to give him a few good belts with his cane on her behalf. He didn't like it when people damaged his things, and nearly sending a crossbow bolt through Miss French definitely counted.

But, of course, Belle did not resort to hitting the man, and Mr. Gold had seen quite enough to intervene.

"Miss French," he began almost deathly quiet. "You are late. Please go wait for me in my office. And you..." He rounded his full attention on Gaston. "Laddie, you and I are going to go have a few words about keeping your hands off of my things."

Belle looked a little grateful and little shaken, but she hurried out of the atrium without commenting.

"Let me make myself very clear: you will refrain from damaging or in any other way manhandling my property, or I will ship you back to Monmarte to starve with the rest of the useless folk artists. Are we crystal clear?"

"Ze painting damage is nothing, Mr. Gold! A tiny hole. Zat thing have half a dozen larger ones. And I cannot help if your blonde lady-friend finds me very _gallant_."

"This is not about the painting!" Gold roared at him, the beast in full rage. "You are about to take a short walk off a steep drop, boy."

"Are you threatening me, you-"

"You'll want to watch how you finish that sentence, dearie. I'm the one with the power here."

"Zis is ridiculous. I am calling Archie."

"You do that. Let's all sit down together and discuss the proper use of _crossbows_ in the workplace."

Gaston balked at that. Thoroughly subdued, he offered a weak apology. Mr. Gold, knuckles white on the handle of his cane and a firm snarl spread across his face, did not reply. He simply turned around and walked away, leaving the intimidated idiot to sulk.

When Gold stormed back into his office, Mary Margaret looked frazzled.

"What the hell happened down there? Belle's a mess, London's holding on line 2, Hopper on line 3, and Astrid texted to say she heard you screaming all the way in accounting."

"Continue to hold my calls, Miss Blanchard."

"Sir?" His glare silenced her.

The first thing Mr. Gold saw when he walked into his office was a look of strained sadness marring Belle's typically lovely eyes. She looked like a woman who had cried recently, but her eyes were dry now.

"Oh, you're here," she whispered. "Tea's getting cold."

"Miss French, I –"

Belle shook her head no, cutting him off. With hands only slightly shaking, she poured them each two cups. He reached out and took the chipped one, worried that she might not notice the sharp edge.

They drank in silence.

"Thank you for stepping in, Mr. Gold."

"Think nothing of it, dearie."


	4. Chapter 4

Anthony Gold was a _bona fide_ bastard. That was Belle's only clear thought as she kept her face stony and silent for the duration of this latest mad tea party. Would it ever end?

He was working today, which meant she was sketching, or would be if her pencil tip didn't lie broken, embedded in several thicknesses of paper. Did he perhaps know that he was unduly cruel? Is that why he didn't look up from the ledger? Bastard.

It all started simply enough, like any other day of their very strange acquaintance. He'd spared her a very uncomfortable confrontation with Gaston, given her space to decompress when she needed it. It was almost friendly. They never mentioned it again, for which she felt somewhat grateful, and he seemed to appreciate her staunch refusal to discuss it with any of the usual water-cooler gossips.

Hopper had been called in, of course, but at the end of the day nothing changed. Well, mostly nothing. There was a small sign in the museum staff room now, saying weapons had to be appropriately peace-tied or unloaded at all times, unless they were in a safe space for cleaning. Human Resources dealt with disaster as they arose, she learned. For _potential_ disasters, they were on their own.

Still, Belle felt that Mr. Gold's intervention was a small kindness and she meant to return it in like.

As a woman who spent most of her time contemplating and preserving the works of others, Belle rarely pursued her own original art. "The French Project," as most of the museum staff liked to call it, called upon her to create in addition to research. Occasionally a private collector would contact her, usually with a few high resolution digital photographs, asking if their little scraps of lascivious satyrs could be of use to her. Invariably, they wondered if she perhaps knew the name of the artist. Regrettably she did not, and – for the most part – the quality and style of the work ruled it out as one of the missing swatches from her research.

Shockingly, one or two of them actually matched perfectly. Those pieces were never for sale, of course, but thanks to the close-knit community of experts in her field and a few well-placed articles on line, she now had a few more missing pieces of "The French Project" puzzle.

It still left quite a bit to the imagination, though. She started painting imps, nymphs and satyrs for practice, knowing that eventually one of their faces would have to suffice as a filler for the missing portions of canvas. They weren't really _for_ anything, just to perfect the brush-strokes and nuance of the original before committing new material to the record.

It was Mary Margaret, unsurprisingly, who first suggested she do something with the sample pieces that littered her work space. The raw sketches, a few of them even from her afternoon teas with Gold, might be worth something to someone. And the few scale-shaded and full-color pieces might even make it into a gallery somewhere.

Belle was quick to point out that the museum, and by extension Mr. Gold, owned everything she made for this project, but it started her thinking – why not try something original? She liked to paint, and her project was still in the early stages of research and restoration. She could pick up a brush for a few hours after work without making herself sick, a luxury that would quickly wane as the full-scale replica commenced.

It took a few weeks, but she did finally complete a few smallish originals that she thought looked very good. When the gallery in midtown said they would feature them, and that she would make a tidy profit from any sales, Belle was ecstatic. It wasn't supposed to be this easy to get work into a gallery in the city. Well, she wasn't a featured artist or anything like that, and she supposed that she never would be. Her real passion lie in the annals of history, not in the tumultuous fads of modern art. Still, it was something she made and it was hanging right there on the wall, next to people whose names she knew from the press.

They gave her 15 vouchers and said to invite anyone she liked to the opening night. It would be a small hob-nob of society and hipsters, with _h__ors d'oeuvre_ and champagne. She gave out 13 to her family and co-workers, but set aside two for Mary Margaret and – on a whim – Mr. Gold.

Mary Margaret said she would be delighted to come, and the two shared a much-needed celebratory giggle. Mr. Gold was not so kind.

She breezed into his office at 3 PM sharp, and went about her usual business of setting up cups and pouring tea. He greeted her with a small nod, and indicated that she should take her customary seat.

"Are you and my secretary conspiring against me out there?" he prodded, teasing. "The two of you look thick as thieves."

"Oh yes, it's quite the scandal," she teased back, and pulled a voucher from her pocket. "I was just inviting her to my gallery opening. Well, it's not my gallery. But I do have a few pieces in it, and I thought -"

"Let me stop you right there, dearie." He held up his hand, refusing the slip of glossy paper she offered. "I don't want there to be any misunderstanding between us. Just because you have the privilege of gabbing away like an old pal within the confines of my office does not mean the same courtesy exists outside these four walls. You are, by all accounts, a glorified feather duster. Fraternizing socially is not..." He trailed off with a wave of his hand then, nose back in one of the ledgers.

Belle might have snapped something sassy back at him, if she wasn't frozen still with outrage. A glorified feather duster? Fraternizing socially? She put the voucher away, picked up her pencil and stabbed it straight through four sheets of paper.

Mr. Gold just drank his tea, and didn't look at her again.

She didn't dare pick up her own cup, for fear it would find itself embedded in one of Mr. Gold's very fine walls. Or maybe his face. Bastard.

Only pride and bravery kept the tears from her face. His words should not affect her this badly, he was just the eccentric businessman who infringed twice-a-day on her life. For _tea_, of all the daft things. Didn't the man know how to make his own?

At first she thought maybe he was just lonely, but this latest encounter proved otherwise. He wasn't lonely at all, just mean. Mean and determined to exert every bit of power he had over everyone unfortunate enough to meet him. What a tremendous bastard.

It wasn't as if she needed him at the gallery. He could have just said no thank you. Or lied, and said he was busy. Or lied, and said he would come, but then conveniently forgotten at the last minute.

The second his empty cup touched the saucer, she swooped in to collect it, piled it onto the tray, and walked out. If that behavior took him at all by surprise, he didn't let it show.

Belle plastered a smile to her face for Mary Margaret's sake, and made a quick march toward the elevator. Would it really ruin her career if she left him to fend for himself tomorrow morning? And the day after that? After all, the work of a glorified feather duster couldn't be at all complex or valuable. Maybe he would just let her off the hook, find her easy to replace.

She didn't notice the well-dressed woman in black stilettos until it was too late. Now it was just the two of them, trapped in the elevator. The woman spoke first.

"I see you and Rumple must have had a bit of a lover's quarrel," the older woman sneered.

"Excuse me?" Belle couldn't have heard that right.

"You and Mr. Gold. Oh, I'm sorry, was that supposed to be a secret? Not very discrete, are we?"

"I am not sleeping with Mr. Gold," Belle insisted, too frazzled and caught unawares to come up with anything more intelligent.

"Whatever you say. I'd be careful, though. Employer's lover is a hard reputation to beat." And with that, the woman left, stepping out through the opening silver doors.

Belle was livid. People didn't really say that about her, did they? Did he? If she found out that Mr. Gold started these rumors as some sort of sick, power-grabbing joke... But no. He was a bastard in the extreme, but that didn't fit with what she knew of him. Then again, how much did she really know?

She ignored Gaston, slammed the tea tray down on the counter, and retreated to her work space. Today's sample imp would have a particularly cruel and familiar face.


	5. Chapter 5

Gold felt more eyes on him than usual as he slowly eased his way into his building's main lobby that morning. He endeavored to use his cane as little as possible, sensing something palpable and unpleasant in the air.

Then it hit him: the faintest whiff of a cloyingly sweet perfume, one he'd recognize anywhere. That was the perfume Mary Margaret sent his women. She saved this one for the occasions when he prodded her to schedule a date with one of the heiresses or ingenues that she found uncommonly condescending. Probably she sent that variety to punish him, but he never corrected her. Perfume was a fourth or fifth date gift, at best. It meant the woman probably wouldn't be sticking around much longer, anyway.

He readied himself for anything and everything. He was not a people person, but he could always suss out another person's desire between the simpering smiles and hidden snarls. Mr. Gold knew his fellow wretches inside and out, better than a favorite book or painting: greed, envy, entitlement, desperation. Gold-diggers (he smiled at the pun) embodied the spectrum. A desperate soul was capable of anything, he mused.

"Anthony? Anthony!" An shrill voice was calling for him from somewhere in the crowd, but he hadn't spotted the baying bitch yet.

In the midst of his surreptitious search, he spotted Annabelle French waiting in line for the elevator. She was speaking softly with Graham Humbert's new secretary, a tough but lovely blonde guaranteed to drive Regina insane. Emma Swan, he recalled. Belle looked exceedingly uncomfortable, but Miss Swan's behavior appeared non-threatening. Best not to dwell on it, he decided. At any rate, they should both be going their separate ways soon for the final leg of the morning commute.

Momentarily distracted, Gold missed the approach of the woman wearing Mary Margaret's (and his, he supposed) least favorite but suitably expensive perfume. When she slapped him hard, in the face, it brought his focus back around.

Now the glances were not so secretive. People simply stared openly, many slack-jawed.

"Anthony, I've been looking for you! Why didn't you return my calls? How could you invite Matilda to the charity ball? That old cow can't even go, she's getting over some bad _botox_." She elongated the word botox, like it was an accusation. As though the hard-faced hypocrite didn't use the poison herself. Her high, shrill voice filled the space, drawing even more eyes.

Security had her restrained by the time she finished her tirade. Though she couldn't be over 30, the woman's eyes held nothing but sourness and greed. Gold saw no reason to indulge her tantrum further.

"Madame," said Gold, aware that he had to keep a level tongue or risk his own tussle with the guards – it wouldn't be his first. "I'll invite whom I like, when I like. When you have something I like, we'll have that next outing. Escort the lady to the exit, boys. If she tries to come back inside, I'm pressing charges." He clicked his cane hard on the marble tile, sending out a sharp sense of finality. The onlookers quickly busied themselves, fidgeting with whatever they had in hand.

Only Belle was still staring, looking a bit too dumbstruck to realize he was not in an entertaining mood. Gold sent her a cool glare, out of habit mostly, and she snapped her attention back to the opening silver doors.

Mr. Gold ground his teeth. It was not a good morning to be Mary Margaret.

The man was seething when he swooped into the executive lobby, many floors up from where his somewhat limited better nature had utterly abandoned him for the day. Mary Margaret stood exactly where he expected to see her, flirting shyly with his business partner, David Nolan, just outside the door to his office suite.

"Miss Blanchard, when you're done making moon-calf-eyes at a married man, I'd like a word." He pushed right between them, forcing them to step apart, as he threw the door open. If they stammered and blushed, making apologies and excuses to one another, he didn't turn around to see it.

Mary Margaret stumbled in behind him, her usually pale face a splotch-stained mess of red. She looked humiliated, but resolved. Some storms, she knew, just had to be weathered. It certainly wasn't the worst thing he'd ever said.

For a full twenty minutes, Gold abused and berated her. He listed off her offenses at length, barely pausing for breath, as though the full burden of building security fell squarely on her. When he ran out of half-sensible complaints, he started cursing a blue streak, and he might have gone on for another twenty minutes if Belle French hadn't chosen that moment to deliver his morning tea.

Belle took one look at Mr. Gold, cursing himself hoarse, and at Mary Margaret, taking it all without flinching, with tears in her eyes. Gold was shouting something about expecting Mary Margaret to cancel her plans for the night. He called her another string of obscene names.

Then he started in again, and said he hoped she was pleased with herself, because she had just volunteered to fill in as his escort, and wouldn't that be lovely? For the first time, Mary Margaret looked genuinely afraid. As if spending even an extra minute in Gold's presence today would, at long last, crush her.

Gold paused just long enough to glare at Belle and demand that she leave. He saw it the very second that she changed. Happy blue eyes, which he had always found lovely, turned all at once hard and took on the hue of gunmetal gray. Lips pressed downward into a scowl that rivaled his own, Belle cut him off mid-tirade.

"That is enough, Mr. Gold."

"Dearie, when I want your opin-"

"Hush," she said plainly. To everyone's surprise, perhaps his most of all, he obeyed. "Mr. Gold, you may not respect me as an employee, a woman or a fellow human being, but you are completely out of your mind if you think I'm going to stand here and watch you disrespect Mary Margaret the same way. The only one who made an ass of you today was that woman in the lobby, but you're giving the whole floor a superb encore all on your own. If you-"

Gold cut her off, his voice murderous. "Miss French, are you entirely certain this is a conversation you want to have right now?" He didn't know if he wanted to fire, berate or kiss her. Maybe a combination of the three.

"Oh, I'm quite sure this is exactly what I want to say. Lay off of Mary Margaret and take your tea." She pushed the cup toward him, and he snatched it. Mary Margaret looked dazed, a little afraid for her friend, and hugely relieved.

"I'll make you a deal," Gold sneered, a wicked glint in his eye. "You take the incompetent Miss Blanchard's place as my escort for the evening, and I won't have security escort the pair of you from the building. Insubordination is reasonable cause for termination, dearie."

"Deal," Belle spat back, beyond caring. She knew Mary Margaret well now, knew her ticks and tells, and she knew the woman would rather die than spend time socially with Mr. Gold. Belle could be brave. For her friend, she could go a few rounds with the beast.

Gold was surprised, both at the words he found himself saying and at her easy acceptance. Oh, but the exquisite pleasure her discomfort would give him. Yes, he could work with that plan. "Excellent," he nearly purred. "I'll have Barneys deliver your dress." The challenge in his eye said she wasn't going to like whatever he had in mind.

"I can take care of-" Mary Margaret began.

"No, no," Gold continued. "Why don't you go home for the day, Miss Blanchard. I'm sure there's a suitable temp in the building. I will, as Miss French says... lay off." Somehow, his overly generous offer managed not to sound generous at all. Belle wondered what, exactly, she had signed up for.

"Fine," Belle replied, resigned. Her nerves were frayed and her adrenaline fading. She gave Mary Margaret a quick hug as the slender, fair woman began a hasty retreat. Very much afraid of what she would find, Belle met Mr. Gold's eyes once more. Scared or not, she was committed now. She had to be brave.

"That was some display, Miss French," murmured Gold, looking rather pleased with himself. "You know you're in for a devil of a time tonight." It wasn't a question, she realized. He was just confirming what she already knew. He was not going to make this _deal_ of his easy.

"I understand."

"You will be responsible for looking and acting the part of a demure socialite."

"Yes."

"You will fetch my drinks for me, you will smile when addressed by polite company, and you will not – under any circumstances – embarrass me."

Belle nodded. She had bitten her tongue around the man for the past month and a half, she could manage a few hours over toasts and champagne.

"Good. I'll send a car to fetch you at eight." He smirked a little, and then sent her on her way. "Oh, and one other thing, dearie..."

Uh-oh, Belle thought. He had something up his sleeve.

"As a part of my collection, I expect you to make a very good... display."

Belle didn't let herself think too much about that. She let out a tiny gasp, turned on her heel, and let herself out. He heard her mutter, "Fine, but you're on your own for afternoon tea."

When the door closed, Gold took a deep sip from the forgotten steel mug in his hand and chuckled despite himself. His insufferable little gypsy had slipped him decaff.


	6. Chapter 6

About two hours after Belle retreated to her workshop to mull over the consequences of her argument with Mr. Gold, the department store called to take her sizes. Two hours after that, a courier arrived with her dress. As she held up the almost sheer, practically nonexistent golden cloth and matching stilettos, the real implications of her deal started to set in. Gold wanted her to look like a woman he'd paid for. She bit her lower lip, full of irony without humor. In a very round-about way, he _had_ paid.

Belle wasn't a stranger to the city's high-end night life. She didn't go to charity balls or galas, but she attended her fair share of museum benefits and gallery openings. She knew she would look ridiculous, but supposed that his reputation could take the hit. After her little "chat" with Regina Mills, though, she wasn't all together sure that hers could.

The blasted man might as well have asked her to clean a house in a ball gown. She was going to be completely out of place, and probably embarrass herself greatly. The city was vast, but there was no way she could get out of this unscathed. At least one of her colleagues would be there, possibly as many as five or six, not to mention trustees for the metropolitan museums.

Belle sighed. No one determined her fate but she. She would just have to find a way to wear the thing with dignity. Tentatively, she slipped it on behind the locked door of the employee's washroom. It was worse than she thought.

Her dress, if a polite person could call it that, tied as a halter around her neck and fell in a wide cowl-neck that ended several inches below her breasts. The back was entirely absent, ruling out a bra, and it only rejoined the rest of the garment a devastating three inches above her rear. For the life of her, Belle wasn't sure why they hadn't just made the wretched thing an apron and spared her the insult of adding a skirt.

It seemed her saving grace would be her height. These dresses were sewn for women who stood at a respectable 5'10'' or 6' tall. Belle was 5'2'' and – for once – thankful. The dress might have ended just centimeters below the apex of her legs if she was any taller, but at her height it fell closer to mid-thigh. And that was it. It covered her breasts, stomach, bum and unmentionables. In that respect alone, the golden, clingy scrap of fabric could be called a dress.

Part of her wanted to cry. To throw a tantrum, call him a beast and stomp her feet until he let her out of the deal. But then Mary Margaret would have to wear this dress, she realized. It was time to be brave.

If she wore her hair down, she could give herself a little more cover on the top-side of things. A few pieces of double-sided tape could re-align the neck and conceal the sides of her breasts. As long as she didn't over-accessorize and didn't break her legs in the shoes, she might pull it up from trashy to just in questionable taste.

Belle took a deep breath, and she remembered how close Mary Margaret had come to breaking. Yes, she could definitely do this. In fact, if she picked out the triple-folded hem and tacked it back up with some fabric glue, she might even get another much-desired inch onto the length. She had to laugh at that, really. This dress, despite being tacky, came from a legitimate designer. Belle was willing to bet the daring Italian couture team would beat her senseless if they knew what kind of bargain-basement alterations she had in mind.

Let no one say her numerous art degrees went to waste. As soon as Belle arrived home on the train, she slipped off her bra to avoid lines and set to work on the thing. About half way through her careful work with the hem, it struck Belle that it would be her first time going out in anything smaller than one of her demure, if somewhat Bohemian, sun dresses. She didn't even like laying out in a bikini at the beach. This was not a good night for anxiety or insecurity; she applied light eye makeup and lip gloss with all the severity of Pict in blue war paint. She thought Mr. Gold, the bullying Scotsman, would appreciate their symmetry.

The panic almost caught her again. She had very resolutely _not_ thought about Mr. Gold as much as possible today. She had to compartmentalize that, if she wanted to remain civil all night. Nothing could have motivated him but humiliation and rage, and no amount of logic or extrapolation on her part would explain it away. When she finished curling her hair and scrubbing the last flecks of paint from under her nails, the driver rang. Belle pulled on a coat longer than her dress, felt momentarily silly, and threw her shoulders back proudly, despite everything. She was taped, glued and painted, but she was not going to break.

Mr. Gold was waiting in the back seat of the car when she arrived at the curb. The driver opened her door, helped her to her seat, and pulled away.

Gold struck her as quieter and more reserved than expected. She thought he would at least have commented on her knee-length cream pea coat, or made some derisive remark about her general state. Instead, he fiddled quietly with his blackberry. One could almost say he was fidgeting.

Ultimately, Belle was happy for the silence of the car ride. They arrived too quickly for her tastes, and she started mentally counting down the time before she would have to shed her protective outer garment and face the city. To her surprise, it was Mr. Gold who – rather smoothly, despite the cane – opened her door and helped her to her feet.

"I hope you're ready for this, dearie," he said quietly in his accented voice. It was the first time he'd addressed her since the fight.

Belle nodded and breathed deeply. "I gave you my word that I would be."

"Ah yes. Of course you're right – the deal is struck." And, on what Belle felt was a rather ominous note, he helped her out of her coat and turned to speak to the check-clerk.

Belle shivered a little, feeling completely exposed. A few raised eyebrows wandered by, but she knew it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been. She could feel proud, she supposed. She'd made the most of what she was given.

Gold, for his part, had the decency to look a little shocked. Good, Belle thought. Let him stew over how badly his little scheme had flopped. She wasn't classy, but she wasn't a tart either, and she was not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her balk. Nothing belied his sour mood except the dark, somewhat damning look in his eye. He offered her an arm on his strong side, and they walked inside.

Mr. Gold had her running around fetching him things all night, his eyes following her like a hawk. She realized about half an hour into the night why he'd demanded this deal, of all the things he could have asked for. He couldn't manage the flutes, handshakes, mingling, and conversation with flawless grace _and_ keep a hand on his cane for balance. The over-all effect of him wouldn't have suffered much if he'd been forced to struggle through without an extra pair of hands – he still stood with an air of power and confidence so absolute that most people never noticed the cane – but it wouldn't have been flawless. The illusion of him would start to crack.

Even in her ludicrous heels, Mr. Gold still had a couple of inches on her in height. She knew intuitively that he would never sacrifice the small power advantage of bearing and stature by sitting all night. She wondered, passively, how much the injured leg really inhibited him. Clearly he was sensitive about it, but it didn't excuse the way he treated people. No one had any excuse to behave that beastly.

Belle was pulled from her quiet musing by a large hand on her bare arm. Not for the first time, she was thankful for the small curtain of cover provided by her loosely curled maple hair.

She turned to the interloper and smiled, wishing he would take his hand off of her arm. Mr. Gold was speaking to one of the charity directors, they were about half way through a thinly veiled pitch that the director had obviously rehearsed. He seemed unaware of their newest guest.

"Annabelle," grinned Gaston, his English worsened by drink. "I did not expect to see you on ze old gargoyle's arm tonight. Why you did not tell me you planned to come?"

Belle had to incline her head to meet his eyes, which were currently roaming everywhere but her face. Gaston easily dwarfed most of the men in the room.

"I didn't know I was attending until the last minute," she replied honestly. "Who are you here with?" Belle was absolutely positive Gaston could not afford a seat at this event on his salary. And if he could, he probably wouldn't choose to spend it on a charity.

"Ze charming Madame Sutliff." He nodded to an older woman gabbing quietly in the corner. Her clothes were a little too tight and she wore a little too much makeup, but Belle couldn't begrudge the woman her fun. After all, Mr. Gold had a partner close to half his age on his arm, too. Who was she to judge?

Ah, but _Madame_ Sutliff wore a wedding ring on her left hand. That was either very nostalgic or very sloppy of her, and Belle wasn't sure that Gaston cared which.

"Come and meet her, I think she would love to find out who designed zis ravishing dress you are wearing." Gaston put his hand on the small of her back, where the skin was completely exposed, and started to push her toward the small group.

Belle's dress panic came flooding back all at once. She did not want to be made ridiculous by a gaggle of women. She did not want to draw attention to herself. She especially did not want Gaston's hands on her bare skin, drifting toward her rump. She dug in her heels and stood her ground.

"Sorry," she said, lying through her teeth. "I'd love to, but I think Mr. Gold needs a fresh drink."

"Nonsense, Annabelle," the Frenchman protested.

"Aye, boy," growled Gold. "I think you'll find that I do." He placed himself between the tall, forward man and Belle, then blindly passed her his cup. She took the excuse to leave gracefully and hurried away.

When she returned, Mr. Gold was standing alone and glaring daggers in her direction. Belle drummed up her courage and ignored it. Most of the people in this room had looked at her less than kindly through the course of the night, and she wasn't about to let one more gaze shake her resolve to make it through this encounter with dignity.

"Are you quite pleased with yourself, dearie?" Mr. Gold quipped when she handed back his cup.

"I'm sorry?" Belle was really doing her best to remain unaffected and not let her weariness or annoyance break through.

"You certainly made quite the scene there," he clarified. "People are staring."

Belle looked around the room, confused. "No more now than any other time tonight." Her eyes said everything her voice couldn't. You put me in this sad joke of a dress, Mr. Gold. What did you think was going to happen?

"We're done here," he replied softly, offering her his arm. "I'll take you home."

She took it, gratefully. She could have sworn she saw him stare down a few of her more obvious admirers. Gold folded her back into her coat quickly and signaled the valet. Belle thought he looked genuinely miserable, and even though he made her mad enough to spit nails she couldn't ignore that now – in the end – he was finally showing her mercy. The ball didn't end for another two hours, at least. He could have made her see it through to the bitter end.

As he was helping her into the car, her stomach gave an audible growl.

"Have you eaten, Miss French?"

"Er, not for a while, no."

Without asking her opinion, Gold ordered the driver to drop them off at an all night cafe in a quiet, relatively safe neighborhood. She hated how high-handed it all was, but enjoyed her mammoth muffin and chai despite herself. For his part, Gold stuck to Earl Grey.


	7. Chapter 7

_Hey all – I'll keep this brief: Just wanted to say that I'm glad you guys are enjoying things, and that the rating of this fic may increase to M if Mr. Gold's imagination gets its rather wicked way. This chapter is still firmly T. _

As they waited to be served, Gold wanted to speak to Belle as he had in his office during those first few weeks. Back before he'd jammed the wedge of position and snobbery between them. And Regina would pay for her part that day – she'd come into his office at 2:30 on a flimsy pretense, just to rile him up he suspected. Worst of all, it had worked. Now he did not know how to begin anew. This was not his office, and a significant part of him felt glad for that small grace. Miss French would not be candid with him in there, not after everything he'd put her through today.

Regina playing mind games did not surprise him. Anything to make a rival look weak, and Mr. Gold's enterprises regularly outperformed her own. He would certainly return the favor twofold, now that he'd gained a bit of perspective. At first, Regina's needling bothered him. Later, it was that Belle never seemed at any great pains to deny it. An innocent would have flat-out refuted claims of an affair. A cunning woman would have levered her alleged influence over Anthony Gold into real influence over his sycophants and subordinates. Belle was certainly clever enough, so why didn't she make a move?

It was only today, when he ventured down into her domain to have a little peek at her dress delivery that he realized – Annabelle French spent most of her day at work locked up in a forgotten dungeon. The workshop and storage spaces for his museum were well out of the way of any foot traffic, and even the small museum staff would be hard-pressed to find many reasons to visit her where she worked. The only other visitor he could conceive was Gaston, and he'd rather not think on that. From his vantage point, he could only see what appeared to be a very old wooden scaffold. He hadn't dared go in far enough to give himself away, so he missed her reaction. From the lack of her screaming, there hadn't been much to see.

Still, it got him thinking. Belle was not part of his world. She didn't interact with anyone in the executive suites, except for himself and Mary Margaret. Miss Blanchard certainly wouldn't insinuate anything untoward. First of all, she knew better, and secondly, her budding flirtation with David Nolan was quickly culminating into a very large and obnoxious bloom.

Of course, the realization that Belle wasn't intentionally perpetuating Regina's lies did little to calm him. By then, Belle had already ruined everything.

His curious little gypsy just had to look him in the eye during a moment of public humiliation. Why couldn't she study her feet like everyone else? Her eyes said "yes, this happened" and "no, we're not going to pretend otherwise." He hated being weak.

Then, just to add insult to injury, she'd wandered into his office with his morning tea and cut him off mid-tirade in defense of his useless secretary. Belle simply invited trouble. How may other women had "complained boss could not be trusted to wield a cross bow properly" in their H.R. files? Not that he'd been peeking.

Her scolding had been quiet in volume, but possessed an undeniable strength. She wasn't afraid of him, and though it sent him into a black rage at the time, looking back his memory found her disturbingly sexy. At the time, he'd felt vindicated in trussing her up and parading her, humiliated, through a crowded room. It was a fair trade. Now he almost wished he had just kissed her quiet.

The aging granny who ran the cafe brought them their drinks then, Earl Grey for him and chai with a large blueberry muffin for her. He noticed her coat was still resolutely buttoned all the way up to her neck as she ate.

_Her neck. That dress._ When he'd requested it over the phone, it had been from memory. He recalled one of his vain little dancers from the opera's ballet asking him to get it for her, to wear to a banquet held in honor of some retiring colleague. Naturally, he insisted she choose something more polite. His memory was of a golden dress that was both immature and trite, not one that was titillating, shimmering and sheer. It belonged in a night club somewhere, but when Belle wore it... Showing ample, peachy flesh and carrying herself with the grace and countenance of a queen despite everything, she looked like something to eat. All tenderness, perky breasts and cream.

She usually wore clothes at work that were easy to move in, he realized, and that she didn't mind splattering with paint or chemicals. Yet here she was, on display for all to see. He felt angry, for the both of them. He'd wanted to humiliate her, and she'd let him show off her assets cheaply. She should have come up stairs and really yelled at him, refused to wear the thing. And he should have known that nothing good could come of playing a vengeful game of dress-up with a woman as stubborn as she.

He didn't know his scheme succeeded in bringing her low until it was too late. Today was his day to play the fool, it seemed. Belle's behavior all night showed only confidence and cool indifference to a minor defeat. She was attentive and anticipated his needs, so much so that it took him the better part of the evening to realize she was doing it intentionally. As he worked the room, she seemed to fit at his side naturally. It wasn't until he'd watched her purposefully take a longer route back to his side, so she could hand him a drink to his free hand without drawing attention to his cane, that he noticed she was caring for him, specifically.

Then it became a game. He would watch her at it, to see what small things he took for granted. It was research, he told himself. If all of his escorts could behave so well, he would not have such a high turn-over rate. Miss Blanchard would appreciate that, at least.

Gold was watching Belle out the corner of his eye, listening to some half-baked plea for money, when he noticed her mask of confidence slip. It happened when Gaston pawed her. And gawked at her. Really? Didn't they just have a conversation about Gaston not touching Gold's things? He wouldn't have minded a chance to trip up the towering man with his cane. Before he could, Belle's body language gave him an excuse to intercede.

She retreated into her hair, and leaned away from Gaston – closer to Gold, actually. She tugged her hem to make sure the cover was at maximum. Although she spoke calmly and refused to join him, Gaston thought he could compel her to go anyway. It was the shift to panic in Belle's stance that finally allowed Gold to act.

In the cafe, Belle pulled him from his reverie. She was offering him two sugar packets, which was how he took his tea. Neither of them had spoken, but the silence seemed companionable enough. At any rate, he still had no idea what he was supposed to say. Belle's tentative smile reminded him of the look on her face when he'd said they could leave, and he gripped his cane a little tighter.

He knew the depth and drama of their little three-man play, and assumed that the others were staring because she'd made a scene. He forgot her reactions were all quiet and small, because to him they'd felt like screams. When she said the others had always been staring, he nearly went out of his mind in a rage. Fool that he was, he spent the night "not looking at her" so much that he didn't noticed the dozen or so men painting her with a long, lascivious gaze. Her eyes told him what he already knew – if he didn't like it, the only person he could blame was himself.

Gold knew what those men were thinking, and his only thought was escape. Escape or throttle them. When he helped her into her coat, he could see himself in his mind's eye, slinking up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist. Pulling her close to smell the rich maple curls around her head and nuzzling her neck. The back of the dress would slip-open easily, with barely a tug, and the fine fabric would fall down to pool around her hips leaving a pair of high, firm breasts and a million miles of skin exposed. She would lean back into him and gasp his name...

Those thoughts were poison if he was to be around her for the remainder of the night. He'd bundled her up quickly, and had the decency to look ashamed. For all that he would like to ravish her in a dream, the reality of Belle was infinitely more complex and complete. She was not the kind of woman who consorted with men like him. Certainly not the kind who would bed him immediately after a very uncomfortable, coerced "first date." She wasn't the type to play Regina's little games, either, and he reminded himself again that his business associate would have to pay.

For all his internal debate, Gold still didn't know what to say to the woman eating a muffin across the table from him. Luckily for him, Belle was brave. She spoke first.

"Thank you for saying we could leave."

"The room was getting stuffy," he offered back, accent thick. "I didn't... I didn't mean to bring you into such a... _stuffy_ place. It was worse than I imagined. I wish you'd told me."

She nodded, seeming to accept that that was the closest thing he could muster to an apology. The conversation flowed more smoothly after that, until it was time to leave.

As Gold helped her into the car, she let out a low hiss and gasped in pain. He slid in next to her immediately, asking if she was well. Gold felt his fantasy woman start to chip as she unbuttoned her coat explained that her movement had ripped free a piece of tape.

Ah. So there would be no graceful pooling of golden silk about her waist because he'd felt the need to send her a dress that she had to keep on with fucking tape. He was an idiot. Still, as she had a good laugh over the whole thing, his thoughts of that sultry, imaginary Belle moved over to accommodate more of the smiling reality.


	8. Chapter 8

_Hey, all! Back from a long weekend, sorry for the unusually long delay. _

Belle didn't know what to make of Mr. Gold any more. He seemed determined to keep her guessing.

The Saturday and Sunday after their "deal," she hadn't heard a peep from him. And rightly so, she supposed. It wasn't a date. He didn't have to call. So things went back to business as usual – on Monday she delivered his morning tea to Mary Margaret, and he did not step out of his office to acknowledge her. Nothing unexpected in that. She would see him eventually, but she knew from experience that he'd be in a bitter mood over their afternoon tea. Something about a conference call to Korea set him on edge every week, like clockwork.

That same morning, she and Mary Margaret found an easy, mutual understanding in very few words. Neither wanted the other to feel obligated or upset by what transpired on Friday. That pleased Belle immensely, and it was with a happy heart that she retreated back to her workshop for the day. It was a nymph day. She divided the samplers, cleaning and inventories by moods. Satyrs were tempestuous and uncomfortable, at best; nymphs were curious and bemusing; the imps looked out on all the others, darkly. Definitely a nymph Monday.

As she reached for her cleaning brush and solution, her breath caught in her chest. There was something waiting for her on her desk. A turquoise box with a white-silver ribbon. Only one thing came in a box like that.

She looked closer, and saw the note:

Miss French,

Thank you for a lovely evening. I apologize again for the stuffiness of the room, it was a gross miscalculation on my part.

Tea at 3 – chipped set with Earl Grey.

A. Gold

Belle looked at the small Tiffany & Co. box again, terribly tempted. But there was no way she could accept a gift like this from him, whatever it was. Mary Margaret hadn't mentioned it... did that mean he picked something out for her himself? She knew from conversing with her friend that those choices typically fell to the fair-skinned secretary.

She legitimately didn't know what to do. Belle couldn't bring herself to open it, but she didn't think she could tactfully return it, either. Things like this had no meaning to Gold. It was a gesture, a small one, his equivalent of a please or thank you. It certainly wasn't as good as a simple "I'm sorry," but it wasn't stone-cold refusal to acknowledge all that had transpired between them over the weekend, either.

She'd expected him to stonewall, to make himself an unmoving fixture peering down menacingly from somewhere over her shoulder. Every time she thought she had the measure of him, he showed her another face. True, many of them were ferocious and grotesque, but some were protective and gentle, and he wore each one like a precious work of art.

Ultimately, Belle tucked the unopened box into her supply drawer. Out of sight out of mind, at least for now. She wasn't content to clean fig leaves and redact locks of conveniently placed hair today, so she started another sampler. The nymph took on all of her confusion and intrigue without her really meaning for it to. As she added the palest twinkle to the creature's soft blue eyes, she knew its quiet, intelligent look would never grace her final product. Still, the work had given her time to think.

Belle loved art. The history and processes of preservation appealed to her inner scholar, but the surreal, nearly photo-realistic magic of oil on canvas positively captivated her spirit. She supposed that sculptors felt the same way about flow and form as she did about line and color. To paint a face, something really human with the depth and power of emotion, it took an unflinching and honest eye. Belle didn't usually possess that kind of brutality, but she saw a glimmer of it in her nymph's blue eyes.

The brush strokes perfectly imitated her mysterious artist of centuries past. So the exercise wasn't a complete waste, she thought. She placed the canvas on a rack to dry, filed next to a particularly troublesome imp, and gave a little sigh. As soon as the cleaning was done, she would have to start painting her replica full-time.

But these were all perfunctory thoughts. Inside her first seven hours at work, her inner imaginings continuously considered and twisted around the mercurial form of one Anthony Gold. They were... _friendly_ when he was in a good mood. And at least comfortable in their silences when he took it upon himself to seethe and stew.

He was mysterious, always pushing when she expected him to pull and shattering to pieces at the most unlikely of provocation. It was beautiful to watch him coalesce, so powerfully unique and entirely composed. Yes, he had the nearly mythic qualities of quicksilver: eloquence, knavery, shrewdness, volatility. The kind of enigma a woman could lose herself in.

Belle had to remind herself of that. Gold was high-handed and over-powering, it would be easy for him to completely subjugate those around him. Mercury, for all its beauty, was still a deadly poison.

When her alarm reminded her that it was 2:40 and time to prepare Mr. Gold's tea, Belle still didn't know what to do about the unopened gift. She would see him without opening it, she decided. Thank him, and wait until opening it felt a little less impossible.

Belle smiled as she prepared their tea tray, using the chipped cup as he'd requested. He always liked that one best, like it was some great novelty. Well, she certainly didn't mind. Belle's family was not wealthy. She wasn't raised to throw a perfectly serviceable cup aside because of what basically amounted to a cosmetic flaw. Of course, she also didn't chip cups lightly. When things and people were not disposable, their owners and confidants tended to provide better care. Well, at least most of the time. But Belle didn't like to think on those darker days.

As 3 o'clock came, she lilted quietly into Gold's office, giving Mary Margaret a soft smile as she passed. He was speaking to someone on the phone, but gestured for her to sit down and wait. This was good. On the days when he acknowledged her entrance, it usually meant he intended to speak to her over their break. She dutifully set up their tea service and sketched the outline of his chipped cup while he wrapped up a conversation with someone named Zoso.

"Thank you for waiting, Miss French. I apologize for keeping you," Gold said as soon as the phone pressed down the receiver. He smiled a quirky half-shadow of a smile, and his accent came through thick and clear. Belle was glad – that usually meant she'd found him in a good mood, and those were rare enough on their own without the added burden of it being a Monday.

"Oh, don't worry about it. Actually, Mr. Gold, I wanted to thank you, too, for-"

"Please, call me Anthony."

Well that was unexpected. But he was extending her a courtesy, and – months ago, when he was a nameless man sulking in the museum staff lounge – she had offered him the same. "Anthony, then," she whispered. "But only if you call me Belle."

"I'd like that, Belle." His eyes took on that same dark hunger that she'd seen at the charity ball, and for the first time she didn't think it made him look angry. Belle twitched a little uncomfortably, unsure of herself in the wake of this new, more intense Gold.

No, not more intense, she realized with a start. He was always intense. This new face was simply clearer and better defined. Mr. Gold, _Anthony_, took Belle completely by surprise.

"Miss French," he began.

"Belle," she reminded.

"Belle," he replied, smiling a little. "I have a proposition for you."

Belle inclined her head to the side slightly, sending a sleek maple curl haphazardly out of her messy bun and down to her shoulder. "And what might that be?"

"Come with me this Thursday to a business luncheon. I have a pressing need for a reliable assistant and many social expectations to fulfill. You and I are... well suited for such outings, I think." Belle could tell he was trying to choose his words wisely. "And I owe you a chance to make a better impression on your colleagues. I assure you, there will be plenty of museum functions, auction houses and charity galas thrown in the mix."

"And I would be there as your... assistant?" Belle wasn't sure if she liked where this new Mr. Gold, _Anthony_, was going.

"Or my colleague, if you prefer. I had hoped you might consent to extending your contract with the museum to accommodate for the extra hours. There would be a significant pay raise, of course." Belle looked at him sharply, and from the glimmer of uncertainty in his eye he seemed to know he'd put his foot in it.

Belle stared him down in silence as she thought about what he was saying. Uncomfortable, but still stubborn, Anthony never dropped her gaze. "If I go with you," Belle began, "it would be on a case-by-case basis, as your friend. I'm not going to change my career or take your money in exchange for my companionship."

Gold winced when she put it that way, apparently realizing how it must have sounded to her so soon after he'd paraded her around in that golden cling-film dress. He collected himself quickly and pressed on. "It would be exclusive, dearie. I'll not have my..." Property? Colleague? Dare he say date?

"Friend?" Belle offered, filling the gap his silence had made.

"Friend," Gold agreed. "I'll not have my friend cavorting at parties with other men. That part is non-negotiable, I'm afraid."

"And if I should choose to date?" Belle prompted.

"Then, as you say, it is case-by-case. But when we are together in public, you are _mine_."

Gold could have asked her one million times, and nine hundred ninety nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine of those times, Belle would have told him to go to hell. But this time she didn't. He plucked at an irresistible chord that made her a little weak about the knees. Honestly, she didn't know what possessed her to agree. It was like he had an irresistible charisma that he reserved especially for her. Yet she found herself asking, "And my clothes?"

"Entirely at your discretion, dearie," Gold conceded. "Within reason, of course. I'll take you shopping and you can decide for yourself what you like."

"I don't like it," Bell said at length. "I don't want to accumulate fancy dresses and linen suits, and I don't want to go with you as an invisible servant delegated to fetching drinks all afternoon. But... if you're serious about needing an ally in the room, then yes. Yes, I will go with you on Thursday, and after that we can decide what else to do."

"And in exchange?" Her dark and somber Gold was back in full.

"In exchange..." Belle began. "In exchange, you will stop all of this "social fraternization" and "glorified feather duster" talk. If I'm going with you, it's as a friend, not an employee. Is that fair?"

"More than fair," Gold breathed. "That is more than fair."


	9. Chapter 9

_So, this chapter is different. I'm not sure if I like it yet, but I think it's necessary at this junction. I promise, next chapter will be more of Belle and conversation and the lovely tea times we've enjoyed so far. Also, if I ever need to torture someone, I'm just going to write about a box and then not open it. Seriously you guys, the last round of reviews cracked me up. Thank you. _

Anthony Gold regretted a lot of things in his life, but the night he spent hunkered down in front of a small loading bay at a Glasgow warehouse was not among them. He'd been drunk, beyond going home. He didn't even rightly know if he had a home to return to. Gail had left him and Bae when the boy was 4. He was 6 now, and one week prior social services had come to take him away. Anthony's world was shattered, and he was only 23 years old.

A father at 17, he dropped out of school to lay bricks and make what coin he could. Gail going was for the best – she had a drug problem, one he'd been damned lucky she hadn't passed on to Bae. But by the same token, it put him under a lot of strain. The pair of them got by, and he loved his son. Loved him, and always tried to do him right. But money was tight.

They'd taken Bae 1 week prior, on trumped up charges that didn't even have the decency to cite neglect. The boy was not neglected. But society saw a young, poorly educated single father and a mother plagued by drugs and drink, and they'd assumed. Gold was too poor to pay any decent lawyer to intervene.

So he'd left. Taken his paltry 5 years' savings and lost himself in a bottle of whiskey for about a week. Maybe Bae would be better off with a nice family in Edinburgh, but they'd never love him like his father could. He didn't mind breaking his back on overtime and sharing a single bathroom with the other residents of a tenement. The boy was clean, fed, sheltered and loved. That meant something to a man, and no one had the right to take it away.

The aged bum sharing his alcove seemed to agree. "Misery loves company," the man said. And that was how Gold met Nikolai Zoso.

They'd both come to the warehouse to die. Zoso wasn't particular about where he died, just that he did it numbed by drink. He'd heard excellent things about the highland whiskey, and had made his way from somewhere in the Ukraine. Gold had come from just the other side of town, but both were equally at odds with fate.

Except Zoso had a secret. He had money. Literally boatloads of it. Of course, he didn't disclose this to Gold until it was too late. The desperate Scotsman threw himself in front of a bus that night, forever mangling his knee. It branded him _coward_, even if no one else knew how the injury had been sustained. Gold only found out about Old Nick's assets when the man, reeking to high heaven, had settled his hospital bills without comment.

Zoso was a shipping magnate, up to his neck with the _bratva_, and he found it easier to simply drift while his business remained in shambles. Gold was smart, quick and had shown himself an able denizen of despair's abyss. He had nowhere to go but up, and a boiling rage to prove himself. They helped one another. For the sheer novelty of it on Zoso's part, Gold supposed. He got Bae back, attended school. Gave the boy every advantage, and protected what was his before it all fell to pieces.

Bae left him when he turned 18. Walked right out, hating everything his father represented. Gail blackmailed him at least three times, before he finally coerced her into filing for divorce. He moved to the States and went into the work of turning money into more money, with a hydra-like business model that seemingly could not fail. They were vicious, pro-active, and if ever one head fell two others would easily rise to replace it. He got everything from that night. And nothing.

What Old Nick got was more abstract, but Gold had paid that debt and then some. Nikolai owed him one. Or two. Or twelve. Regina was in for a nasty surprise.

Her liquid assets were very often tied up in shipments of odds and ends that Gold never chose to examine too closely. Even now, he didn't really care. What did matter is that none of those shipments reached port any time in the next 3 months. Let her fidget for a while. He'd flex his muscles, and she would know – irrevocably _know_ – that she would never outmaneuver him.

No, he never regretted that miserable night Glasgow, even when his leg wailed and wavered in pain; because and in spite of that pain, he found power, and power was everything.

He would not have any more regrets with Belle, he vowed. He _wanted_ her. Wanted her in a way that he hadn't wanted a woman for a long, long time. Most of his dates ended with him alone, because he preferred it that way. He'd sooner fuck one of his expensive watches than the kinds of accessories he took to social functions. For the ones who managed to strike his fancy, well... those dates mostly ended with them on their knees, one way or the other.

Gold knew beautiful women, knew they were vain and predictable. But Belle surprised him, both with her sunny smiles and with her quiet charm. She wasn't flashy, coquettish or cute. Belle was pretty. Really, truly pretty, in a way he thought women stopped being after 1980. He wanted her stripped, flushed and panting, laid out on silky sheets and begging. He wanted to see the woman who stood up to him and treated him kindly absolutely pinned to his mattress, meeting him thrust for thrust.

And, more in keeping with his plans for Regina, he found that he didn't want Belle unnecessarily hurt. If he had his way, he'd lock her up and never let her go until he'd satisfied every wicked and depraved urge. More importantly, she'd let him do it. Happily.

Belle, for her part, agreed to willingly spend time with him. He wasn't expecting to get his way on that point so easily. And what had she said? She wouldn't take his money, would go with him as a friend. As his _friend_. He had no friends, hadn't since before she was born. But.. the considerably kinder part of himself, the part that missed Bae every day and wept once upon a time for a lost soul named Gail MacDonald, wanted that friendship too. Maybe not to trust her and bring her into the fold, but enough to be really, genuinely interested in the things she would say and the smiles she gave him.

Lunch on Thursday would be a test run. She'd refused to go shopping with him, insisting that she owned plenty of skirt-suits. He insisted right back that she would not dress like a common intern, and demanded she allow him to buy her a dress. And his little gypsy? Of course, she laughed. Belle, as it turned out, owned a closet full of dresses she thought would do for a day function.

He didn't recall when she became his, but he remembered the gypsy part every time he saw her. Belle seemed to dance as she moved, not a sultry sashay – though he'd coax those out of her in time – but a thoroughly pleased, carefree kind of dance. The dance of a woman plagued neither by worldliness nor naivete, of a woman who simply enjoyed life's music. Sometimes he scared her to stiff, boring walking, he knew. Belle would make a terrible poker player, her body language always gave her away. But since the fiasco with the gold dress, he'd been careful to give her more cause for dancing than despair.

That did not mean he changed who he was. Oh no, never that. He wanted to, of course. He wanted to lie through his teeth and play the part of the gentleman and seduce shy kisses from her by night. But that wouldn't get him what he wanted, which was Belle monopolized and unbound. When he caught a glimmer of trust and something more tricky in her eye, he shut the fantasy down.

Business, however, did not stop for the beast to sate himself. Gold still worked, some might say obsessively. He demanded excellence from those around him, and reduced more than a few employees to tears each week. Mary Margaret, more often than not, got off light.

Hopper wanted to roast him alive, if the H.R. memorandums littering his desk were anything to go by. Fortunately, the man could say nothing about Belle. She was not being coerced, not really, and she was not his direct report. Regina might have the power to make things difficult socially, but in terms of real intervention Belle was entirely on her own.

He stopped to speak to Belle each day over tea, work permitting. Her life fascinated him. Her father raised her alone from an early age, in an old family home that they didn't really have the money to keep. She'd been engaged once, at 18, to her high school sweetie. But Belle wanted something more for herself, so she left it all behind and went to college. For Art History, of all things. The lady herself admitted she wasn't sure why it appealed to her at first, but two Masters' and a decade later she seemed happy.

Belle didn't like to talk about her family life after she left for school, and Gold suspected there was something she wasn't ready to share. Well, family was family. He didn't like to talk about Bae, either, and that wasn't going to change. Sometimes he still paced by the phone all day on the major holidays, waiting for his son to call. But of course Bae wouldn't call. He may even have grandchildren by now, and daughter-in-law he'd never meet. It wasn't that he didn't want to apologize, he'd hired P.I.s to track his son down. But they always came back with nothing. Wherever Bae Gold was, he didn't want to be found.

Thursday went over without a glitch. Belle wore a sky blue sundress with a wide brown belt and a pair of patent leather pumps. She looked every bit the part of a powerful man's date. Not his colleague or inferior, but someone with whom he chose to spend time. That would set the tongues wagging, but it also sent a clear, loud message: _mine_.

Belle chatted politely with the other wives and secretaries, and charmed her way into a few contacts Gold would have been hard-pressed to make himself. He had a reputation as a merciless, savage businessman, and not everyone in the city's old guard liked that. But they adored Belle. At least most of them did.

More than a few sets of finely shaped eyebrows attached to designer women in suits gave the girl a wide berth. They didn't see her as useful, and therefor not valuable. Unworthy. That chaffed Gold considerably, but Belle didn't seem to mind at all. Well, let them stare. He wasn't hiding his intentions any more. If he found Belle worthy of his time, and his time was worth millions of dollars, then that made Belle valuable by association. The vultures and war horses would figure it out eventually.

He was more than a little pleased when, on Friday over tea, she'd consented to be his date to a networking event that same night.

"That's kind of short notice, Anthony," she's smiled. "But I had a lovely time at the lunch."

"You'll have to let me take you dress shopping for this one, dearie. What with the short notice and all."

"Oh yes," Belle sighed. "Can't have a ragamuffin friend." Her eyes told him that she knew what he was up to, being high-handed and not giving her an option other than buying something new.

Gold chuckled, but his insides twisted. _Friend_. Why did he think that word was going to nettle him fiercely in the coming weeks? He wanted to look at her meaningfully and make it clear that nothing he had in mind for Belle could ever be called friendly. He dearly did. But she sounded so sincere when she said it, that he thought – maybe – he could have the woman beneath the fantasy too.

He felt like the worst kind of reprobate then. Like something about his intentions made her unclean. Of course she didn't want to be his friend. It was a cunning ruse, a kindly lie. Everyone wanted something from him, usually money. She just happened to be one of the lucky ones to whom he freely gave. Was she seducing him? Did it matter? He decided it did not, and took her to a boutique after work.

For his part, Gold couldn't remember the last time he left the office at 5 on a Friday. It was... nice. Belle looked lovely in a gunmetal gray dress that broke at her knees and draped around her collar bones. When he suggested a trip to the salon, she just laughed and fussed her hair up with a few bobby pins. Her effortless elegance impressed him, and he made sure to stake his claim with a hand on her back as they walked into the room.


	10. Chapter 10

_I am having an author's quandary. This story has been more or less plotted since day one. I know how it's going to end, and basically where all the pieces are going to fall, with possibly a couple of surprises left to find in the middle. What I'd like to know from you guys is this: is anyone going to stop reading if we bump the rating to M? R&R, if you have a strong opinion one way or the other. _

Belle enjoyed her time with Mr. Gold. With Anthony, she corrected herself. Maybe some day calling him by his given name would come more naturally. Their new familiarity had started simply enough: she went with him to a midday gathering of financiers listening to men in over-stuffed suits give "state of the market" speeches.

In her opinion, they were all a lot of rubbish. Belle lived frugally, in part because she had to and in part because she wasn't raised to affluence. At 28, she had only just cleared the red from her student loan ledger. She lived alone in a small flat, with no real prospects of buying a home; privacy was her primary luxury.

To her, Mr. Gold's world seemed contrived. The mystery of taking an incomprehensibly large pile of money and transforming it into a yet larger pile, through a series of stocks, bonds, net gains and corporate trades might as well have been alchemy or something arcane. It wasn't that she lacked the mental acuity to comprehend it, it simply didn't have anything to do with her day-to-day life.

Still, she smiled and chatted and generally made herself useful. Anthony didn't look completely miserable, and he even spared her a few smiles while the more mercenary women of his world circled and eyed her clothes.

Then he'd taken her out on Friday night as well, to a semi-formal banking social. He was true to his word – there were no more barely-there dresses, but that didn't mean she had successfully avoided all that the wardrobe wars entailed. He wanted to pay for everything. Dresses, shoes, stockings, makeup, hair, nails, underwear. Belle wasn't having it, and brought a kit of supplies in to work the following Monday. She had a couple pairs of neutral heels, plus the gold ones he bought her previously, a few sets of under-things to change into, makeup, and supplies for basic hair care.

He didn't like that, not at all. Belle wasn't sure if he was frustrated that she chose to keep his spending to a minimum or if he was just annoyed that she didn't want to play dress-up any more now than she had on their first nerve-wracking outing.

She remembered how he would pout: "Belle, dearie, if you won't take full advantage of the goods and services I can provide you, people will start to talk."

"Oh, yes," she'd teased him. "They might start to say that I actually enjoy accompanying you to these tiresome things. Perish the thought."

He'd seemed pleased by that, and had let it drop. But he still tried to add extras at every turn. If a dress looked good on her, he'd have one delivered in a similar style the next day. "To cut down on shopping trips," as if that made it somehow less costly. Or, if she snagged a pair of her convenience store stockings, three pairs of thigh-high, silken ones would appear wrapped in tissue paper from the local boutique. "Consider it like an expense account, dearie."

It frustrated her. She didn't like lavish gift-giving, one – because it made her feel that he would set a precedent of just throwing money at her, like all of his other problems, when the time came and two – because she didn't like to accept more than she could conceivably return. Only the fact that he could afford it, nothing he gave her came dearly, kept her from flat-out refusing him. And she still hadn't opened that box.

They'd been out twenty three times in two months, and he'd never once brought it up. It's not that she wasn't curious, or even that she didn't like pretty baubles. She was, and she did. Belle simply wasn't sure she had forgiven him yet for the "stuffy" night in question, and it felt dishonest to accept his peace-bribe prematurely.

It struck her one day, as they laughed together in the back of his town car over some witty quip he'd made, that Anthony was not an all-together bad looking man. In fact, when he wasn't menacing her away with one of his stony, devil-faces, he was actually very handsome. Maybe in another life, in another world, she'd thought ruefully.

This was not the kind of feeling she could act on. Everything with Anthony was business first. Even their "dates," and she had to remind herself to stop calling them that, were really just business obligations. In the car, she had about a 50/50 chance that he would work quietly on his blackberry or speak to her as they navigated traffic. Even then, if he did speak, sometimes it was just to rant about the office and his interns' general incompetence. Belle got into the habit of bringing a book on some of their longer treks, as they generally helped the time pass.

One especially dull day, when he'd been wrapped up in his blackberry and balancing numbers in his head (she could always tell, he had a slight twitch to his fingertips like someone who was accustomed to pressing them together to make a quick tally), she had very nearly gone insane. She wore a simple sun dress, since the weather was nice, and they were headed out of the city to a reception hall in the country. The bridges and tunnels were packed, she couldn't focus on the words on her page. A vague sense of claustrophobia had taken her.

She'd pressed the button to lower their blacked out windows, to let a bit of sunlight and breeze in, and had been disappointed when they didn't respond. A bought of petulance took her then, and she began to press the button a bit maniacally.

"What _are_ you doing?"

"Trying to open the windows and let some light in. But they're stuck." Suddenly, she was suspicious. "Do you have the child safety locks on?"

"Yes," he'd replied, as though that were the most natural thing in the world.

She'd laughed at him, Belle recalled vaguely, and had leaned forward to lower the divide – so she could ask the driver to disengage the lock. Suddenly, traffic had started to move, and she'd been thrown backward, landing squarely in Mr. Gold's lap. He had his arms around her, keeping her from any real harm, and it seemed the driver knew what she was aiming for, because he lowered the windows about an inch without being asked.

Belle hadn't known what to do with herself. He was solid. Very solid, and fit. It was the wiry, muscular build of a man who had once been accustomed to hard labor and had maintained his shape with the regular lifting of weights. It felt _good_, and that scared her. For his part, Mr. Gold looked equally unsure what to do with her piled unceremoniously into his arms.

"Thank you," she whispered. He'd quickly set her to rights, re-establishing a void of space between them.

"Thank you," Belle had repeated again, a little more sure of herself the second time.

"No matter," he'd muttered, quickly picking up his blackberry again.

"I'll, uh, ask the driver to put the windows back up..." Belle had offered, leaning forward toward the division screen. He'd stopped her almost instantly, saying "Don't worry, I'll get used to it." She remembered him clenching and unclenching his fist as he resumed work, and she'd assumed he was angry. They hadn't spoke at all for the rest of the journey.

That's how it was with him. Work, piled on top of uncertainty, with the faintest dash of attraction. And just because he was behaving himself when he spoke to her did not mean that he had sheathed his claws. Belle spent at least 30 minutes a night with her lips firmly pressed together, her nails digging into her palm, as he brutalized whichever impertinent post-grad had wasted the greater part of his time. She knew he'd make it worse if she tried to intervene, and it was hard to feel sympathy for his victims when they buzzed and pestered him for petty things all night long.

Their tea times didn't improve much either, not that they were ever bad per se... She'd walked in on Astrid Nova crying more than once, but Mary Margaret seemed OK. Gold always sent them hurrying away as soon as Belle arrived with the afternoon tea tray, and a couple of times he even had the decency to look a little ashamed. But it was the cat with the canary kind of guilt, at best – the kind that comes from being caught.

Then again, Belle considered, sometimes they got along grandly like a couple of old pals. Once or twice he'd sprung an invitation on her, and sent an intern to her desk to fetch her "emergency" things. She'd changed into a new dress and cleaned herself up from the safety of his en-suite bathroom while he'd made phone calls and continued working. There was something intimate about sharing space, like he was saying "this is me, doing my thing; but it's fine that you're here too." On those days, when he really let the stony mask of indifference slip, they chatted and laughed without any concerns. Belle liked those days, they reminded her who he was under the never-ending uniforms of custom-tailored suits and silk ties.

Today, they were going to a charity gala. He'd foisted off a floor-length gown and trip to the salon on her, and she'd let him because this was one of the rare events where they would meet both his colleagues and hers. She didn't mind it so much, since they'd planned it all out a week ahead of time. Fully dressed and "fluffed," as she liked to call it, Belle had popped off at her work area to change out of her flats before meeting Gold in his office. He almost always worked late on their "date" nights, since they invariably left the building together for their destinations.

Something told her tonight was the night. Belle felt a little bare in dusky rose gown, and she decided, almost on a whim, to wear his gift from Tiffany & Co. The thought that it wouldn't be appropriate hadn't even crossed her mind; the man had taste.

When she opened her drawer to retrieve it her heart stopped. The box wasn't there. Panic set in. She hadn't locked it away, hadn't seen the need. Did someone steal it? But who would need to search her art supplies? For that matter, she didn't really know what was inside that box in the first place. It might have been a stamped leather key chain, or something equally useless for a night on the town. It was no real loss of property, she knew. But still... she had to tell Anthony. To not open or wear his gift was an entirely different thing from losing it.

The elevator ride up to his office was the longest in her life.

Mary Margaret had gone for the night, as had most of the managerial staff. Thank God for small favors, she thought to herself. He was on the phone when he ushered her in, but ended the call quickly. Here goes nothing.

"Belle, you look lovely."

"Thank you, Anthony. Listen, there's um.. something I need to tell you."

"Oh?" he replied, looking curious. He was texting his driver to bring up the car as she continued.

"I... Well, first of all, it was an accident. But I lost the gift you gave me, the Tiffany box. I'm sorry."

To her surprise, Gold just laughed. "Yes, dearie, I know. 'Box' indeed. So you really never opened it? That's a relief."

"What? Why?" Belle's concern was genuine.

"It was entirely generic and not at all suitable for you. I thought at first that you just didn't like it, and then I forgot. So imagine my surprise when Miss Boyd turned up with the unopened thing along with your damned emergency kit last week."

"Oh, Anthony. I'm sorry, I just.. I didn't feel right accepting..."

"No, of course you didn't, you impossible woman. But you were going to accept it tonight?"

She nodded. "I was going to wear it, if it was..."

Gold gave her his biggest, sneakiest smirk. "Good." He produced a varnished wooden box from his desk, and Belle immediately recognized it as an antique.

"Anthony..." she warned.

"No nonsense," he grinned, sounding gleeful. "We've already established that you're in a gift-getting mood. Arguing over the details will make us late." And, with a flourish, he presented her with an Art Deco silver and diamond choker from sometime in the late 1920s. The entire thing was a series of flourishes, filigree and fans with a hidden clasp that he flicked open deftly. Belle was entirely speechless as he brushed a stray curl from her shoulders and placed the delicate gems around her neck.

She wanted shout at him, to insist that he take it back. It probably cost more than one year's rent. But it was just so perfect, and he had already closed the clasp around her neck by the time she found her voice. Belle squeaked out a breathy thank you, and Gold looped his arm through hers as they exited the room.


	11. Chapter 11

_Out of respect for my readers who like the option to skip smutty scenes, I'm going to put one (or two, I guess, if it's popular?) of Mr. Gold's fantasies into a side-fic called "A Wedge of Lemon with my Tea." The main fic's rating will remain T. Just to be clear, they're not yet sleeping together in the "Tea" continuity – it's all Mr. Gold's daydream. You can link to it from my author's page – this first one is his reaction to Belle being dumped on his lap in the town car, chronologically, but it has no bearing on the main plot._

Annabelle French was a damned nuisance. Like his own private hurricane. Had he thought her some mere gypsy dancing in the breeze? The woman was a force of nature, leaving a trek of wastelands in her wake. It started small – hair pins in his en suite, sketches in his briefcase. Now there were heels in his town car and books tucked away all over the place. It didn't take a genius to see that Anthony Gold had a woman in his life.

To add insult to injury, she was clumsy. He, himself, had to take extra care never to falter with his gold-topped cane, so as not to appear weak. Belle? Belle seemed upended by simple things: accelerating town cars, cracked pavement, uneven curbs. She was his own personal stumbling block, in so very many ways.

Her natural grace always seemed to win out in the end; she never really fell or injured herself seriously, but she faltered visibly at minor obstacles. It bothered him that it _didn't_ bother her. She'd just carry on, happily, sometimes taking his good arm for a little bit extra support. Gold was most bothered when she found herself stumbling on his lame side. She always caught herself mid-fall, but then she'd follow up by catching herself mid-reach, like she didn't want to chance unbalancing him as well.

It made him want to scream. She was right – it might have given him some trouble if she suddenly pulled down against his bad leg – and he hated that. He despised his weakness with undiluted loathing and self-contempt. Belle should always feel free to lean on him, to rely on him. If she did, it would make seducing her go much more easily.

Yes, he told himself that. But another part of his brain, the part that conspired against Regina for gossiping and had Gaston's contract up for review, told him otherwise. That part said there wasn't a price too high to protect what was his, wanted to jealously guard every discarded hair pin.

That was the part of him that bought her last remaining piece at the gallery. The part that wanted to preserve her, always, so sure that he was going to ruin everything like he always did. In retrospect, he could have kicked himself for not accepting her invitation to the opening. What was he thinking? The painting he purchased was the last of three, and it showed a landscape of a vast, dark forest stretching outward into the darkness.

Something about the way she plied her blacks and greens gave the whole thing a sense of foreboding and movement, like he could see shadows creeping through the night. Where she'd ever seen such a place, if such a forest existed, was anyone's guess. He found it strong, masculine and entirely to his tastes. Of course, the fact that Belle's name was printed in small letters along the bottom left side didn't hurt its chances of pleasing him.

And she did please him, he realized. It made him especially happy when he was able to sneak something past her usually sharp defenses. The necklace she wore to the gala came to mind. He'd bought it the same day Ashley Boyd brought him the unopened Tiffany box, no questions asked. When she noticed it was missing, if she ever did, he would make his cunning substitute. The plan had worked perfectly, and she'd never had the chance to refuse.

They were _friends_ now, and how he despised that word. David Nolan had once remarked, when plied with a bit of Gold's fine Scotch, that he didn't want to end up in Mary Margaret's "friend zone." He didn't think he was stuck in the "friend zone" with Belle. Her body told him, in many subtle ways, that she found him attractive, though he still had a hard time believing it.

It would have made sense, if she'd ever shown any inclination toward wealth or power. Those could be potent aphrodisiacs, as he well knew. But she wasn't bluffing when she turned down his favors, and she was always sincere when she thanked him for the small things – stopping to grab a 2 AM bite when they hadn't been able to sit down and eat, leaving the occasional soiree early if it was obvious her shoes were terrorizing her feet.

One day, they'd had a small breakthrough. She was in his bathroom pinning back her curls and applying some light eye makeup, and he was wrapping up some mundane bit of hum-drum work, sipping the fresh pot of tea she'd brought with her. Then she spoke.

"Anthony, why did you want me here?"

"Want you where, dearie?" He knew what she was asking, but hearing her say "you want me" – no matter the context – sent a shivering rush of delight down his spine and a jolt of blood to his loins. Oh yes, he wanted her alright.

"Here. You know, the tea and the parties. All of it." She popped her head out of the bathroom to look at him. He went to some pains to suppress his more bestial instincts, all of which told him to saunter up and whisper in a low, thick voice at the shell of her ear: I want you. It doesn't matter where.. before rubbing himself over every inch of her and marking her, visibly, as his. He had fantasies about Belle spread out over his large wooden desk, but plastered against the bathroom wall would do quite nicely as well – if his leg could hold out.

"The interns' tea was disgusting," he quipped, not really trusting himself to stand up and approach her.

In a move he would replay in his mind for man, many nights, Belle came to him. She gypsy-flitted across the room, no doubt leaving a pile of cosmetics on his white porcelain sink, and sat down on the edge of the desk closest to him. Her favorite blue sundress rode a little high on her leg. If he'd been of sound mind, he would have grasped both of her calves, run his hands up her thighs and kissed her fiercely until she let him lick and nip her into a frenzy of delight. But, of course, he was a little too shocked to reply, and the moment was lost to the foggy pleasure of memory.

"I think you were lonely," Belle said with no mockery in her fine blue eyes. That brought him back around to reality. She was serious. This was a moment he couldn't waste. "Anyone would be."

She looked around his office, and he knew she was commenting on the total lack of anything personal or sentimental. He had a liquor cabinet stocked with fine whiskeys and crystal glasses, a few potted plants that Mary Margaret kept alive despite his neglect, and an old claymore hanging over the door – but he had dozens more like it in his collection downstairs; the blinds and carpet were both rich and red, matching his dark wood accessories, but nothing in the office was really his. Everything was a prop for his business proceedings, right down to his rose-gold pen set.

"I'm not just anyone."

"Well, it's just.. We've been doing this for a couple of months now, and I've noticed that there's only one photo in this office. The one you keep in your desk. Was it.. do you have family, back in Scotland? Friends?"

"Aye," he'd replied. "A son. I lost him, as I did his mother." He'd been unusually forthright in sharing that, he knew, but he couldn't imagine Belle ever lording his failures as a husband and father over his head. She was entirely too good.

"I'm so sorry." And she was, he could tell. It was for the best that Belle didn't lie, as a rule, because she'd be terrible at it from the moment she took it into her head to try. She'd smiled softly then, carding her fingers through his hair to lift the melancholy, and had gone back to her preparations. She seemed to find excuses to pet him and touch him gently that night, and for once he was glad of her friendship, totally separate from his wilder musings.

The whole night after that had been pensive and quiet between them, but as he helped her back into the car she'd held his hand. And when they were situated, she hadn't let go. That simple kindness was worth more to him than all the fantasies and scheming in the world.

Still, they had other nights when her preparations had not gone so smoothly. Not that Belle had any reasons to complain. One night, while she'd been folding herself into a rather complicated cocktail dress, there had been a knock at his office door.

"Who is it?" Belle had asked.

"Don't worry, I'll get it," Gold had replied. He remembered fondly the sense of glee that he had when he realized it was his wretched little curator. Gold had closed the door and walked the man out toward the lobby, closing the door to his reception area for good measure as well.

"I know zat you have Annabelle in zere," Gaston glowered at him. "We have ze exhibit to prepare, I need her downstairs."

"Really, laddie? An exhibit to prepare? At seven o'clock on a Friday night?" He was glad for the two layers of concrete that now stood between himself and Belle French. That meant he could have a little fun at the Frenchman's expense.

"Eet is for ze daycare."

"Odd, Belle was telling me earlier that 'ze daycare' proceedings have been in place for a week. Try again, dearie."

"You are an old _gargouille_, you cannot give zat woman what she need. What ever you say to force her here tonight, we end zis like men." He looked like he meant to throw a punch Gold's way.

Two things crossed Gold's mine then. One, Gaston was deluded if he thought Belle French was leaving with him. Two, Gaston's contract renewal had not come back favorably, in no small part thanks to Gold's scathing reviews. His museum, his rules.

"I think not. You're fired. Speak to Hopper on Monday morning, the paperwork's already been filed. I'm giving you two options: stay and make a scene, and I'll tack on a call to Immigration. Walk away, and I'll give you to the end of this quarter before I put that paperwork through."

Gaston looked flabbergasted. "You cannot fire me! I have ze contract..."

"Which it is at my discretion to renew. Stay another 30 seconds and I'm cutting out your severance package, too." He didn't have to try very hard to appear menacing, intimidation and fear were some of his favorite tools.

The taller man was all but frothing at the mouth, but he beat a hasty retreat – cursing Gold in French the entire way. As Gold walked back toward his office, he spied a lavish display of fresh roses being removed from Mallory's office. She had a new bunch delivered every day, and they mostly just went out with the garbage each night. He pulled one out and continued on his way.

"Who was that?" Belle had asked him, finally dressed and ready to depart.

"Just the cleaning staff, but I sent them on their way. I stole you a rose from the cart. Here, if you'll have it?"

They made a facetious set of bows, and Gold was thrilled when she seemed to flirt. That had been one of their more successful nights out, he recalled fondly.

Tonight they were in for more of the usual, but Anthony didn't mind it so much when she was there with him. If you'd heard one man try to peddle magic beans, you'd heard them all. At a certain point, every pitch started to sound the same. But, as he looked at Belle out of the corner of his eye, and saw her seemingly contented face as she listened to the man addressing the room, he didn't feel the evening was a complete and utter waste.


	12. Chapter 12

"You're not listening. I have to attend this symposium, and I can't go with you this weekend. It's not that I'm eternally unavailable, I just can't be there tomorrow night or the next. In fact, I've already asked you _twice_ to come with me and be _my_ escort for a change."

"Aye, and I've told you that the wheel of commerce won't stop spinning just so you can go gallivanting about with a bunch of artists in some third-rate hotel conference room. We're not missing my meeting."

"Anthony! This is insane. Those meetings are all the same. If you won't skip one to come with me, then that's your choice. I'll be fine. But don't act like those long-winded speeches and spreadsheets are essential for you to survive. We agreed on case-by-case, and I need to be at the symposium this weekend."

"Nothing your artists have to say could be as important as the world's best financiers."

"That's nonsense. It's the same thirty people saying the same seven things on repeat all night! All your wheel of commerce will do is spin in place, and nothing is going change. And what about what I have to say? I'm presenting a paper, Anthony. This is not up for discussion, I'm going to my conference."

"And I say you're not."

"Stop it. You're not bullying me out of this. I've made up my mind."

"Well change it!"

"You're impossible."

"And you're as bloody stubborn as a mule. Don't think for a minute that I won't find another date to replace you."

"That is _not_ what this is about, and you know it. If you want to take someone else along with you, then by all means, please do. I am going to the symposium. With or without you."

"Then 'by all means, please do!'"

Belle had to stop replaying their argument in her head. Since she'd stormed out of his office in a huff on Thursday afternoon, the pair hadn't spoken a single word. She'd booked herself off on Friday, and hadn't returned until Monday morning. It was fast-approaching 3, and Anthony hadn't so much as said 'boo.'

Her time at the symposium had been educational, and she'd done her level best not to behave strangely when unattached (or, more likely, unattended) men approached her out of the blue. Belle hadn't been on a proper date for a while, and she was patently refusing to call the parties she and Mr. Gold attended dates. Still, when she and Anthony went out, other men did not not approach her.

In reality, she'd never felt herself very popular with men. Sure, there were creeps like Jacques Gaston (whom she actually hadn't seen in the office for a few days now), and there were nice men like her high school sweetheart who didn't have much of interest kicking around in his head, but – for the most part – men found her _odd_. When she'd shared this thought with Mary Margaret, the other woman had jokingly pointed out that Belle must be odd, because what normal person would voluntarily spend time socializing with Mr. Gold? They'd laughed at the time, but Belle had a sneaking suspicion that the other woman had been right.

It felt nice, having men she intellectually respected approaching her with drinks and offers to discuss her work seriously. A couple of them had even given her information about job openings overseas, excited to hear about her work on "The French Project."

Naturally, nothing would come of the job requests. She was contracted to stay in Gold's company for another year. But it was nice to know that she had career prospects to look forward to.

Really, all of it was exciting. The men, the jobs – one in particular, working with a historical estate north of Paris really caught her eye – and the general atmosphere... it was fun, new, affirming, and entirely awkward to navigate without Anthony Gold at her side.

After a while, she found that her somewhat dark humor didn't go over well with the men, they would just pretend to laugh and offer to buy her another drink. And her expectations of the ladies and gentlemen who would be her new bosses left a lot lacking; some of them were incredibly cool and confident, but none of them oozed the raw charisma that Gold had.

Belle was in trouble. The man was impossible, and the argument they'd had prior to her symposium only proved that Anthony didn't have time for anything other than his work. She felt like they'd gone on a series of dates, but they hadn't really. It wasn't romance, it was business. Just like everything else about him. Him and his damn wheel of commerce could just sit in the corner and spin.

When her alarm went off, she decided to take pity on them both and brew his afternoon tea. Avoiding him and leaving him to fend for himself sounded appealing, but what she really needed was to get a few things off her chest. She needed to talk to that man.

For his part, Gold's weekend was miserable. She'd rejected him. In principle, he knew that Belle might not always be free when he wanted her company, but nothing had prepared him for hearing her say no. None of the words that came after that mattered, because he was already a sea of anger and self-contempt.

Gold did not like to be refused, and he especially did not like it when the person refusing him looked like she belonged in the pages of his own personal sexcapade. Belle, when she was fierce and telling him off, made his breath hitch and his blood race. Of course, all of that tended to be stomped down by his usual reflex of anger and shouting. But looking back... It made his mouth go dry.

Oh yes, he was in trouble.

He should apologize, he supposed.

Mary Margaret had already sent his thanks to Miss Friday and Miss Saturday Nights. He hadn't wanted any reminders of Belle at first, and Friday had been a tall blonde with large implants and expensive tastes. She'd been utterly useless for anything other than eye candy, and he'd briefly considered taking her back to his town house to vent his frustrations in private.

But, of course, Hurricane Belle had intervened. Miss Friday Night had complained non-stop about the general dullness of his business dealings, so he'd taken her to a popular lounge-bar to shut her up. A few curious paparazzi took photos, which seemed to please her, and she'd tried to show her appreciation by crawling into his lap when they returned to the town car.

His lap. In his town car. All he could think about was that damned Annabelle French being tossed into him as she tried to pry the windows down. This blonde woman smelled wrong, and her mouth tasted like stale wine.

Gold might have powered through, if Friday hadn't pulled a slip of paper from somewhere in the crease of the seat and asked him what it was as they paused for breath. It was a sketch. One of Belle's forgotten scraps, except this one depicted his chipped tea cup and a loving rendition of his own worn hands.

He'd left Miss Friday Night on the curb outside her home.

On Saturday, he'd tried a different tactic. Strictly speaking, he didn't have any business obligations that night. But, lacking Belle's company and convinced that carrying on without her was the right mode of attack, he'd booked himself a last-minute table at a small orphan charity benefit.

He brought a woman he'd dated occasionally before his fortunate deal with Miss French. She was petite, brunette, and generally pleasant. He might even go so far as to call her intelligent, the exact opposite of Miss Friday Night. But Miss Saturday still wasn't right.

She didn't _do_ anything. She was just as pretty and passive as he recalled, and an heiress to boot – which made her professionally unemployed. Miss Saturday spoke when addressed and deported herself gracefully, but she was intolerably boring. He found himself whispering quips that he knew Belle would appreciate, only to have Saturday look at him and respond with perfect sobriety.

He missed Belle's stifled giggles and soft touches; a surrogate was unacceptable.

Gold got exactly zero work done on both nights, and had resolved to speak with Belle on Monday. She simply had to make herself available, end of discussion. Unless she wanted to bankrupt him and his company (and a part of him feared that she might after their little shouting match), she would remain by his side in the future.

As three o'clock crept closer, he considered going down to meet Belle in her work space. He almost never went down there, and – if he did – he typically didn't delve in deep enough to be seen. For all that he was an idiot, Gaston had been right about one thing: Mr. Gold really only went down to his museum to fire people and spy.

In the end, he was too cowardly to roll into the heart of Belle's territory with the proverbial guns blazing. Naturally, Belle had no such qualms. His little gypsy-warrior was brave.

"Anthony," she said, settling the tea tray precariously on his desk. "We need to talk."

Oh yes. He was in trouble, indeed.


	13. Chapter 13

_I finally got a Tumblr so I could keep tabs on all the glorious little one-shots that are never published on the big indexing sites... and then I had to pry myself away with a crow-bar so I would actually do a bit of writing tonight. I am blown-over by the quality of this fandom; seriously, you guys, it's awesome to be a part of the OUAT community. This is my first fanfic in YEARS, but the RumBellers and RushBellers out there are too amazing for me to miss out on. Thank you, all!_

Belle hadn't wanted to talk, really. She'd wanted him to listen. And, for his part, Anthony had done beautifully. He let her say her piece, and then stood up – silently – and hobbled across the room to his liquor board. When he turned around, he held two glasses of Scotch in his hands and offered one to her.

"Aye, dearie. I'm sorry."

She hadn't know whether to cry or laugh, so she'd tossed back the drink in one miserable gulp, placed the empty glass on his desk with a sharp thump, and threw herself into his arms for a gale-force hug. It had taken him a moment, but he'd let his own glass fall by the wayside, pulled her in close, and had done a fairly good imitation of a man who was never letting go.

With one hand buried in her maple curls and the other holding her to him like a man adrift at sea, he'd pressed a chaste kiss into her temple and whispered in a dark, impossibly raw voice, "Come have dinner with me tonight."

Having Anthony like this, all firm muscle and soft words with a heavy, hot breath flush against her ear, Belle hadn't cared about the practicality of their situation any more. She wanted what he was offering.

It was so painfully clear when they finally stepped away, him cupping her cheek like he was afraid she'd vanish if he let go entirely. She wanted him. And, if she was being honest with herself, he wanted her too. He had for some time. All of the usual challenges and objections remained, but Belle refused to let them get in the way of this sudden, and somewhat unexpected progress.

When they finally sat down to tea, Gold decided to speak.

Anthony talked about his life in Scotland, and she told him a little about why she'd left home. Neither of them went into great detail, but Belle could tell he was making an attempt to tell her something real and true. This was a new color for him, testing out the truth. It was neither profound nor jaw-dropping, but she appreciated the simplicity.

Usually, everything about Anthony Gold was complex, bordering on the over-wrought. He was like a Gothic cathedral, in a lot of ways. A host of angry faces, each one unique, glaring down from something vast and fundamentally beautiful. She could see him now – really see him. She could see where his foundations cracked and sweeping arches buttressed him up, and she was beginning to see the many lifetimes of changes with no small portion of sadness carved upon his face.

Still, when they talked like this, fingers lingering over passing cups, she didn't feel like she was standing in the shadow of some imposing monument. She felt like they were equals. He wasn't trying to bully her, wasn't glaring at the other men in the room, and didn't make nearly as much of an effort to look unaffected when they talked about their families.

Gold said he would pick her up at her apartment around seven o'clock, and gave her his personal cell number so she could reach him. Belle left his office with a smile on her face, and did her best not to notice that Mary Margaret looked a bit glum. Her friend was up to her ears in phone calls and paperwork, so they exchanged a quick nod and Belle promised herself she would make time to stop and chat with Gold's secretary the next morning. For now, the best she could do was to free up Anthony so Mary Margaret could get her office back on track for the day.

When Belle got back to her workshop, there was more good news waiting in her inbox. One of the contacts she'd made at her symposium had followed through with high resolution photos of a painting they'd discussed over drinks. It fit the period and style of Belle's Nymph and Satyr piece, and – like her project – was unattributed to any known artist.

What she saw when the file finally loaded and displayed took her breath away. This was Belle's artist. She knew those brush-strokes and shadows as well as she knew her own. It depicted two lovers, asleep in a soft embrace, but the subjects were poorly centered... like there was something missing. Then it hit her like a ton of bricks. He'd included a close-up of the painting's "irregularity" – a wisp of something in the painting's upper left-hand corner. It was hair – it was the hair of one of her nymphs.

Words couldn't describe Belle's joy. She'd never expected to find the lower right-hand corner of her wall-sized canvas. Even the descriptions and catalogs reported it as missing. But this – it changed everything. Her mass of demi-Gods and imps finally had context: the dreams of embracing lovers. But was it pleasant, or was it a nightmare? Belle had some serious work to do, but tonight it could wait. She and Anthony were going out, on an honest-to-goodness date, and Belle was in the mood to celebrate.

Gold didn't usually go out just for the sake of being someplace other than his town house. He went out for business needs, for stock holder presentations, and to support charities that made his tax return come out looking squeaky-clean. If he gave in to his baser instincts, he'd lock Belle up and throw away the key.

Certainly, there was a particular pleasure that came from taking a beautiful woman out and saying "look, but not too much; she is mine." But, in Gold's case, he thought he'd rather spend his nights memorizing all the contours and quirks of her face safely away from the other seven billion people on the planet.

Despite his typical reticence, he still had to deal with Regina's machinations at some point. She hadn't made much noise lately, but that didn't mean her venom wasn't spreading. His little prank with Zoso would start to irk her soon, and Gold anticipated fall-out. Regina's position in the company was... problematic. She was his partner, in a way, but of course Anthony owned the building and handled a bulk of their accounts.

Mallory would take her side, if they had it out. The pair of them were thick as thieves. And Graham, probably, if he valued his bedfellow. The three of them would make quite the opponent, if they chose to strike out, but it was nothing Gold couldn't handle with a little time. David Nolan was something of a wild card, but since he'd essentially inherited his position from his father when the elder Nolan had passed, Anthony wasn't especially concerned. He'd taken over Nolan's biggest accounts, and David still hadn't proven himself worthy to take them all back.

He supposed that work-place gossip wasn't the worst price Belle could pay for her association with him, but it was never that simple with Regina. Her mother, Cora, was a thrice-divorced viper and a legend in the city's Old Guard. Regina wasn't half as cunning or cut-throat as the old war horse had been, but her opinion still held weight. It was the legacy. Ms. Mills was a board member and trustee for more than one of the city's public galleries, for instance. And she had a seat on the board of the city's premiere private hospital, in addition to a row of seats dedicated to her late father in the metropolitan opera house.

Comparatively, Anthony Gold was a financial power-house. But also a first-generation immigrant. _New_. Not one of the Old Guard crowd.

If Regina took it upon herself to ruin Belle, there would be no question of her finding more work in the city. Anthony could keep her on his own pay roll indefinitely, but he knew in his gut with all the certainty of a sinking stone that that was not what Belle wanted for her career.

Gold simply had to trust that Regina valued her money and saving face over her own personal enjoyment and spite. The woman had nothing against Belle, all of this was punishment in her long-standing feud with Anthony. She used to take it out on Mary Margaret, but mostly she'd just batted his little secretary around in a game of cat-and-mouse. If she ever did her level-best to lash out, Gold suspected that she might succeed. After all, she'd learned all her best tricks from him.

Regina would keep until tomorrow. It was somewhat difficult to scheme and plot when he remembered the two willowy arms that had, just hours prior, encircled his chest, and the soft maple curls that tickled his nose when he held her close. Belle in his arms.. that had been heaven. Nothing an old devil like him deserved, not even remotely, but all the same – heaven.

And their talk... well, her talk, more than his. She didn't know what to do with him, was being driven crazy with the uncertainty. Belle thought he'd been absolutely unreasonable about her symposium, and he had to admit that she was right. He'd needed a drink to find his courage, and apparently she had too.

Saying sorry, just accepting the blame she'd lain at his feet, was completely contrary to Gold's sense of self-preservation. But by God, when he'd held her and kissed her hair and smelled the mild rosewater on her skin he hadn't cared. She could knock him down all she liked, as long as she let him hold her tightly and whisper his hopes in the midst of the rubble.

They were going to dinner. He was taking her out. On a date.

Gold thought that had been an act of great self-restraint on his part. He'd heard her, knew she was unhappy in the gap between friend, employee and escort. He had a solution, of course. If she were his lover, the mosaic would be completed beautifully. But one thing at a time: dinner, drinks.

Men Gold's age did not _date_, he'd thought ruefully. He had no intention of playing the coy suitor or the handsome beau, but he knew he had to meet Belle half way. She was not the kind of woman who would bed a man simply because it was easy. And... he trusted her. Almost begrudgingly. Because of all the women in the city, Belle was the one he trusted not to prance him about like a fool on a leash, and – to his shame – she was also the only one he'd let put him on a short lead, if she asked prettily.

He would be her fool, her King of Fools, happily. But knowing that Belle would not willfully put him into that position, and the ensuing sense of trust and relief, caught him completely by surprise. He'd never thought he would feel this way about another human being.

Belle deserved a man who would give her the world that she so desperately wanted to see. If he thought he could get away with it, he might have high-handed her into a dinner in Rome. Preferably, two or three of them. And breakfasts, too. Or brunch, if they were feeling lazy.

No, she wouldn't appreciate that so close to the conclusion of their new understanding. Gold made a reservation, instead, at a very nice restaurant well out of the average luxury-tourist's way. If they were going to do this, he was going to do it right.


	14. Chapter 14

The first things Anthony noticed were her shoulders, tastefully bare and utterly kissable. Next came the jewels – she was wearing the necklace he'd given her, one that she reserved for special occasions with such ferocity that he'd only seen it twice since the night he gave it to her. It suited her, Gold knew; the piece declared nicely "I'm not someone to trifle with" while simultaneously shouting "I'm with this man." Finally, he noticed her smile. Nervous, a bit, but still full of sunlight and extending fully into those laughing gypsy eyes. They might be his favorite shade of blue.

She could have met him wearing a plastic garbage bag and he probably wouldn't have minded. As it was, she wore one of the dresses he'd bought her several months prior. It had been a gloomy day indeed when Belle had proudly declared her wardrobe sufficiently stocked and insisted on a dress rotation. He still managed to sneak her new things every once in a while, but those times had a bigger gap in between.

Gold gulped. Belle knew what she did to him in this little champagne cocktail number. It invoked a sense of golden-age Hollywood glamor, updated for a modern evening function. The more practical part of his brain wanted him to kick his own teeth in for asking her out on a week night. At the time, it seemed like a great idea. Less waiting, and he did sincerely loath anything that made him wait. But seeing Belle dressed so elegantly and knowing that, at least this once, it was entirely for his advantage, made him regret that he'd have to return her home at a reasonable hour.

Oh yes, his sly little dancing girl knew exactly what she was doing to him, if the spring in her step was any sort of evidence. But two could play at that game. Anthony took care to let her see the fire in his eyes before drawing her close and placing a small kiss on her cheek. He felt her breath hitch as his fingers ghosted along her neck and tucked a stray curl into place. He sealed the deal when she blushed a fantastic shade of peachy-pink as he murmured: "You look lovely tonight, Belle."

Belle looked genuinely surprised when he escorted her to the passenger seat of his classic Cadillac. "I didn't know you drove, Anthony."

"I don't, as a rule," he replied smoothly. "But I wouldn't be much of a date if I didn't take responsibility for my lady's transport." Yes. And a driver would just make things crowded, his inner voice added. He knew from her wide eyes he had made the right choice; Belle made a stunning contrast of peach and champagne against his black leather seats; his own personal Bellini.

Leather. Belle loved the smell of his car. It was obviously well-oiled and cared for, kept nearly pristine. The smell of good leather mingled beautifully with the subtle spices of Anthony's cologne.

He asked after her evening so far, and she absentmindedly told him about her rather uneventful subway ride. Well, as uneventful as they ever were. Naturally, there were still a few amusing moments to unfold. Belle was more focused on inhaling the exceptionally heady aromas of this small space that was unadulterated Gold.

Anthony laughed. She supposed she was funny without meaning to be, and it brought her attention back around to the conversation.

"So that's that. Pretty normal, but now I'm ready to celebrate. There was a huge break-through on my project today!" She'd wanted to wait and share that information over their meal, but it was the first thing that came to her mind and she was entirely too enthused to hide it.

He commented that they must drink champagne if she intended to properly celebrate, and Belle pointed out that it was still too soon to toast her success. Didn't want to jinx it, or anything. These things took time, and_ Lovers Embrace_, as they called that fragment professionally, would have to be verified and authenticated by other experts in the field before she could work it back into the original.

Still, patience was a virtue – Gold laughed in earnest at that – and she was positive the findings would come back favorably. She'd simply spent too many hours learning the minute quirks of this unknown artist to be convinced _Lovers Embrace _wasn't her missing puzzle piece.

Belle touched his shoulder and leaned in a little further than strictly had to when she thanked him for his shared enjoyment of her new discovery. The way he gripped the steering wheel more tightly confirmed that her ensemble's appeal had hit the mark.

The two of them were not in the car much longer before Gold was brandishing his cane and exchanging words of warning with the valet. He cut a dashing silhouette beneath the restaurant's exterior lights, and he was smiling his honest, happy grin when he took her hand into his own and led her inside.

Hands. Belle's were so much smaller than his own. It was because she always danced into a room and owned it like a queen that he hadn't noticed before. He thought of her as little, sometimes. His little gypsy, his little Belle. But he'd never thought of her as _small _before now.

She was, though. Despite all of her grace and energy, Gold felt suddenly fearful of how easily she could break. All it would take is one brutish mugger on the train, and she'd be over-powered easily. He'd have to do something about her commutes, it seemed; assigning her a company car was nothing, and it would give him peace of mind. But, of course, he already knew the stubborn woman wouldn't accept it.

That plan may have to bide its time, he supposed.

Their table was neither sparsely modern nor cloyingly cliché. Anthony would remember this place in the future, for when he wanted to take Belle out again. No rubberneckers or photographers in sight, the food smelled divine, and the ambiance was intimate without setting him on alert for lurking cupid statues.

As the conversation carried on and they placed their orders, Gold found himself enthralled. Usually they conversed for twenty or thirty minutes at a time, or were constantly broken apart by his sycophants and co-workers. Their silences were companionable, which he always enjoyed, but they'd never spoken so long without interruption before. This was a wonderful night for firsts, he thought.

Of course Anthony knew that Belle was smart. And witty. And charming. And a generally kind soul. But he'd never expected to hang on her words, like those of a masterful story teller. When he commented to that end, she attributed it to vast quantities of reading. That sparked an entirely separate debate on books, and for once Gold didn't find himself hurrying along the wait-staff for the bill.

Books. So her Mr. Gold was a reader, too. Belle had never pegged him for much of a fiction man. Or a history man. Or any kind of man at all, besides the kind who reads stock reports and spreadsheets. They'd discussed literature in general, of course. No one reached their level of education without a basic command of the classics, at least. But to hear him talk about Stuart Mill and Carlyle with the same gusto as Roth and McCarthy set some of her last reservations at ease.

Mr. Gold – _Anthony_ – might not show much beyond the mask of a menacing businessman at work, which happened to translate to most of the time she spent with him in public, but he definitely had a very active intellectual life. It proved, in a round-about-way, that somewhere in his private hours he shut off the blackberry and simply enjoyed life.

Belle wasn't sure she could date a non-reader, not seriously. It was a strong prejudice of hers, she knew. But no amount of telling herself that everyone embraced intelligence differently could rid her of the need to push books onto the men she was seeing.

That was one nice thing about art history, she told Anthony as they waited for the valet to bring the car around; her peers tended to be self-important, over-compensating elitists, but they were all exceptionally well-read. The pair of them agreed they'd rather read for enjoyment than for credibility. Victor Hugo was one of his comfort-reads; hers was Dumas, _père._

They were full of each other and a little bit of good wine when Anthony helped her out of the car and walked her to her building's front door.

"Thank you for tonight," Belle told him as he drew her closer. "I'm sure you probably weren't very pleased with me for brow-beating a date out of you, but -"

His mouth crushed itself to hers, silencing her. "I'm pleased. You please me very much, Belle."

Anthony's accent came out thick and rich, and it turned her spine to honey.

Their second kiss was harder, more needy. Belle pressed herself flush against Anthony's lean chest, and he moved her backward a few steps to lean against the brick faced. His cane lay abandoned on the ground.

One hand traveled through her pinned-up hair, loosing maple curls around her shoulders, and the other caressed her gently over her ribs and down her side. His mouth grew hotter, and more demanding, adding the tip of his tongue and edges of his teeth. Belle opened to him, and they rocked against each other gently.

Gold thought he might devour her. She tasted sweet, and her lips had an irresistible, soft strength that pushed back and challenged his own. The smell of roses tempered faintly with paints, her gently tousled curls, and her gently curving frame pressed against the length of him left Anthony completely at her mercy. Right now, if this woman wanted to kiss him in the middle of a busy street, he'd let her. There could never be enough to sate the craving.

He wanted her. Considered begging, briefly, to be allowed upstairs. Coffee was the pretense they cited these days, if he remembered correctly. But even those thoughts left him entirely as she gasped and made a quiet moaning noise. Belle set him entirely adrift, a devil unmade by half-a-moment's bliss.

When they parted for air, he descended on her neck and paused slightly to nibble at her ear. She was breathing heavily with one hand grasping the hair at his nape and the other tucked half way into his loosened tie and partially unbuttoned shirt collar.

"Belle," he growled into her ear, attacking her mouth once more. As her nails pulled slightly at his neck, Gold's little noises and moans joined her own. When he finally dared to move his hands up to graze the underside of her breasts, she placed a firm pressure on his shoulder to stay him.

"Anthony... I can't."

"Aye," he replied, pulling her back upright for a long embrace. He knew she could feel his arousal, but he also knew that tonight was not his night. Men did not pester women for favors they were reluctant to give, that was a game for boys. Besides that, he was adamant that Belle would be completely unbound when she finally joined him in bed. Or on the hood of the Cadillac. Or on his desk. Or in the bath.

He had to pull himself together before he embarrassed himself.

Belle felt like a well-kissed woman for the first time in her life. She could feel her lips swelling, the slight burn of whiskers that had rubbed her neck, and she knew her hair was past the point of redemption.

"Will you bring me tea in the morning, dearie?"

"Of course. I always do."

"Well, will you come and give it to me in person, then? I probably won't have time to chat, but I'd like very much to see you instead of Mary Margaret."

"I think I'd like that."


	15. Chapter 15

_All's well – thank you to Paulawer for asking. :) Apologies for the lateness of this update, everyone. I got a little obsessed doing research (ancient Greek court-law, don't get me started; they spelled misogyny Y-A-Y-!) and I was reading a lot of academic-type stuff, so the fiction took a bit of a back seat. In case you missed it, there was also an update to Wedge of Lemon that goes between chapters 14 and 15 (Belle's fantasy, rated M). OK, I'll shut up now – Time for Tea!_

Anthony knew he would not always have time to spare for Belle. She'd broken him down and burrowed into his walls, but he was still a business man. The wheel of commerce was still spinning, as it always would.

If left to his leisure, he might be content to lose himself in her sunny disposition and never broker another deal until the end of his days. They could be happy together, he knew. But his business defined him, empowered him. He _liked_ it. And still, there was the matter of finding Bae.

No, he would not always have time to spare for the gypsy warrior who'd stumbled into his life (or had he stumbled into hers?) en route to some further, more exotic place. But he did have time today, and he meant to use it wisely.

Gold was thrilled when she let herself in to deliver his morning tea. She looked bashful, maybe a little unsure of how she should greet him in their work place. He'd pulled her in to kiss her cheek, accepted his tea, and set her free to make the most of their remaining work day.

On a blacker morning, he might give in to an urge and pull Belle into his lap where he could hold her close and continue with phone calls and typing. It would be much less distracting, knowing where she was and that she was safe. There were not any crossbows in _his_ office, at least. She would get used to it, eventually.

Leaving a few canceled meetings and disgruntled brokers in his wake, he might even conspire to keep her with him, continually at arm's reach. Certainly no one could complain about his new addition when she smiled so prettily and helped keep the wicked Mr. Gold's claws at bay. Then again, he knew his business associates better than they knew themselves in many cases. A desperate, disparate lot motivated by rhetoric and greed – that was no place for his Belle.

He'd rather deposit her safely in the master suite of his town house – four stories and a basement, built over a garage and even a small, enclosed court yard. It would be perfectly safe, and he could have her whenever he liked. And whenever she liked.

_Especially_ when she liked. Kissing her after their experimental date was like demolishing a fastidiously constructed cathedral of restraint and setting free the army of gargoyles and desires that the stalwart walls had kept in place. Belle was a wrecking-ball, a sledge hammer, a hurricane, and she could demolish him any time she pleased.

So, when two o'clock rolled around and Mr. Gold found himself with the rare pleasure of free time, or at least with a list of tasks that he could re-appropriate, he decided to be brave. He stopped by the office cafe and purchased a couple of scones – blueberry was what she liked, he hoped – and ventured down to Belle's work room.

Anthony had never come this far into Belle's world so openly before. Usually he lurked in doorways or shadows, and listened in on his (occasionally ill-advised) deliveries. Walking in openly, like he had a real reason to be there, felt oddly liberating. A few of the support staff looked at him oddly, but turned away quickly when they noticed him noticing. Well, let them gawk. It was his collection, wasn't it? His things, his money, his staff and his Belle.

Seeing her then, unaware and perched precariously on the end of her scaffolding, picking away at a tattered canvas the size of a large shed, all he could do was smile. She looked happy.

The pleasure of monogamy had, since Gail's passing, largely eluded him. With lots of women, none of them meant much of anything. Some men he knew kept wives and mistresses and whores, on the weekends, and they claimed to love them all, but not Anthony. He approached his personal life the same way he approached his business, with a single-minded determination that was always thinking three moves ahead. He could always look after himself, and at most one other. Or maybe two, if one of them was Bae, but he hadn't done such a great job of that the first time.

In the past, caring was a thing to fear – it meant you had something at stake, something worth losing. Now, though, it was different. He knew he was strong, and nowhere near as lost as he'd been at 17. Anthony wanted Belle and she him, for reasons that he sometimes couldn't comprehend; but he could protect her now. He could protect _both_ of them, if he had to.

"Good afternoon, dearie," he greeted her, when he was sure both of her feet were securely planted on the elevated plank. Nothing good would come of startling her and sending her toppling. He couldn't do much more than break her fall with his own body, given his cane and bad leg.

"Anthony!" Belle spun around on her toes, delighted to hear his voice. "What are you doing all the way down here? I didn't miss our three o'clock tea, did I?"

"No, no. Not quite yet. I had a moment and thought I'd join you for a change. Scone?"

Belle nodded enthusiastically, and began her wobbly dismount of the scaffold. Gold tried his level-best not to ogle her back-side and legs as her Bohemian skirt rode up past her knees ever so slightly. Given the general productivity of their last date, he made a note to set up plans for the coming Saturday. He had thought, perhaps, Friday... but Friday was another of his work functions, and while Belle would certainly be invited to attend, she had made it very clear that those kinds of evenings were not an acceptable alternative to romance.

"What are you working on, then?" He indicated the general mess of sketching taped up behind the gaps in the canvas.

"Well, today I'm just cleaning. You know, grime does build up. And somewhere around 1850 some hack went through with a poorly-blended cover-up and mangled a lot of the genitals. Those are trickier, but most of them wipe free without affecting the original layers underneath..."

Something about hearing her saying 'genitals' felt entirely out of place. She was always very proper and polite, his Belle. Except for when she was asserting herself, then she was magnificent and mighty. He would love to nuzzle up to her and play a little game of talking dirty. And he would, someday. But in that exact moment, Belle was still talking.

"I like to look at the sketched-in bits best. It helps me work through the mechanics and posturing for the final project, especially when you've got to stare at the same twelve inch square for hours at a time. This part is in a private collection in Bucharest," she said, pointing him toward a series of drinking fawns. "I just got the verification about a week and a half ago. And then there's this.."

Belle hopped down the last several inches and leaned in to give Gold a chaste kiss. "This part all came in yesterday, so it's just a rough sketch. But I'm sure we'll be able to authenticate it once my colleagues in Prague get a couple of other experts in to have a look."

He took it all in, casually. It was the first time he'd seen her work, even though he was paying her to produce it. The care, quality and passion Belle brought to her job left him somewhat at a loss for words. His hands had never made anything as elaborate as all this. Lifetimes ago, he'd lain bricks. Bricks that might even still be stuck together with gritty mortar, under the feet of some struggling Glasgow lawyer. It wasn't the kind of work that was meant to last, merely a bi-product of civilization.

Gold's work was the mindless spinning-forward of economic theories and modules. Money switched hands at such speed and in such high quantities that the end result was ages removed from any kind of tangible service or product. Well, David Nolan managed accounts for several medical equipment manufacturers, but those were almost too insignificant to count.

With Belle.. even her so-called 'crude' sketch of two lovers embracing evoked emotions than he would muster in a single day. They chatted amicably as she poured the tea; the museum staff room was deserted except for the two of them.

Finally, though, Gold had to ask the question nagging at his head. "Why did you choose come work for me, Belle? Why this project?"

From her reaction, the question came as somewhat unexpected. "A little bit of scholastic adventure, I guess. I thought it was a good job; or, it had the potential to be. There aren't a lot of opportunities for recent graduates in my field, and I knew that this project would give me a chance to show the community what I can do."

She paused then, took a sip, and then continued, "I thought it was brave, at the time. Taking on a solo project for a privately curated collection, instead of getting a job dusting trinkets at one of the public museums. Less networking options, but more responsibilities. And I liked the independence, thought it might give me options to travel... you know, some day."

"And now?"

"Well, I didn't confirm the artist's identity. So, the travel is kind of still a pipe-dream. No trans-Atlantic lecture tours." At this, he could tell she was only half-joking. "But I'm pleased. I found missing scraps of something over 200 years old, and I'm putting it back together for posterity. This project has the chance to really mean something, some day."

"Oh, a lecture tour, is it? And what of friends or family for our darling gypsy princess?" If she thought his pet-name for her sounded odd, her face didn't show it.

"I don't know," she told him pensively. "I was engaged once. Did I tell you that? He was nice, in a simple kind of way. We were way too young, though, and I wanted to go to school. I'm glad we didn't. We might have been happy, but it wouldn't have been... Well, it wouldn't have been worth giving up all of this.

"Life is like that painting in there. It's layered, and the layers are impossibly complex. Oils are easy, really. They make you think they're three dimensional, sometimes, but it's really just a piece of canvas and a little shading. It's the same for love. You saw the two embracing... mine was just a filler reproduction, but the subtext between them in the original is devastating... and the way it informs the rest of the scene... that's something I'm passionate about. And that's what I want for my life, too. I guess that probably sounds silly. But what about you? You said there was a son?"

Her eyes said it all, just like they always did. Belle was _good_. She cared for him, and the things he held dear. If he made this choice based on his own wants, Annabelle French would cease to exist. The smiles, the passion, the honesty... all of it would be trapped in some twisted sanctuary.

When her contract to restore that painting she always prattled on about ended in ten months, he would not be able to let Belle go. She could work for another museum in the city, maybe. If it wasn't too far, and if there weren't a lot of men sniffing around her all day. More likely he would have to find some underhanded way of keeping her safely where she belonged, close to him and out of the public eye in the dungeon of his collection. Really, he was still rather fond of the lap-sitting idea...

No. He'd take her to some remote cottage in the country and make a real, true monster of himself. It pained him to think of his pretty little Belle treated like some wretched Philomela, but that's who he was. He'd do it, too. Gold knew himself that well, at least. He even kept a little place in the highlands where, once upon a time, he used to break the odd knee cap. Those days were behind him, but not so far that the shadows couldn't encroach...

Bae had begged him to stop making the men who failed him pay in blood, but he'd never listened. When he finally heard the boy's words, it was too late; Bae was already long gone by then. He couldn't put Belle through that, but if she tried to leave him after 10 more months of having her close...

The place in Scotland was too conspicuous. It would take nothing but a phone call, and Zoso would furnish him with everything he'd ever need in some remote cottage by the Black Sea. She'd really be lost to the world then. Safe with him. Always safe. But never truly free. Never unbound, the way Gold dreamed she would be.

After her symposium, Hopper had forwarded him at least half a dozen requests to take interviews with Belle. They'd talked about it, in passing. She was flattered, but knew her contract wouldn't allow it. They weren't a real option.

But there was one. One in Paris, and that job would be an amazing opportunity for Belle. He couldn't bear the thought of ruining her like he'd ruined things with Bae. The thought of Belle, a hallowed shadow of herself with raggedy hair and ill-fitting clothes brought a taste of bile to his mouth.

Letting her go now was the right thing to do. It was with that resolve that he finally spoke: "Belle, I think you should consider one of those interviews that we discussed."

"You know I can't do that. I'm still under contract here through the year."

"I'll have a talk with Hopper. We can iron it out."


	16. Chapter 16

Belle thought her interview went well. She'd dressed the part of a very fashionable and chic professional, in no small part thanks to the stack of business-formal and semi-formal clothes she'd received in her dealings with Anthony. She had a wonderful chat about her future prospects with the property curator in his native French tongue without stumbling too terribly over her words. Yes, all in all everything was coming up sunny.

Then, of course, there was the man himself. He'd been a regular storm in a tea cup over the last two days. Gold behaved as though the interview meant putting Belle on a chartered plane with five suitcases, an envelope of money, and a note pinned to her jacket. He still looked at her with eyes that spoke of a very specific kind of hunger, but it felt like a prelude to goodbye.

She'd insisted on doing the interview remotely, via a webcam and microphone. He clutched at his cane handle a bit when she told him as much, but let her have her way in the end. If he really wanted her out of his life, he wouldn't have let her win that argument quite so easily. At least that's what Belle was telling herself.

Who flew to France to talk shop for two hours, anyway? Well, that was pretty obvious – men like Anthony did, apparently.

The difference in their financial situations bothered her a bit more than she liked to admit. He didn't just have money, he had assets. Maybe in liquid wealth he wasn't too far ahead of the rest of the city's elite, but he also owned property and held clout. Belle barely owned her own paints, her student loans had only _just_ been paid, and certainly nothing about day to day life was worth noticing. She felt silly, sometimes, talking to him about her rides on the train or a particularly good deli she'd discovered. It didn't seem like she was really giving him anything he could use. Belle just had to hope her companionship would be enough to interest a man like Mr. Gold.

So, here she was, on one of the oft-maligned middle floors of their office's high-rise, sitting in a conference room all by herself with a laptop sitting on the polished table in front of her.

Belle felt pensive. Not quite ready to go back out and face the world, but not quite able to bring herself to regret the choices that brought her to this point either. It was like cheating, really, to try so hard for a job she had no real plans of accepting.

It was a good job, of course. They'd made her an offer on the call, and seemed keen that she move out to the estate as soon as possible. But there was no way for her to continue her restoration work on the _Lovers Embrace_ in France. And there would be no well-dressed man holding his chipped cup carefully, waiting to take her for a drive in his pristine Cadillac.

Belle didn't pass on her regrets lightly. She cited a few reasons, and tried to make it sound like she hadn't intentionally wasted anyone's time. It sounded flimsy, even to her, but the deed was done now. She was staying. And, if he'd have her, she was staying with him.

She wanted to believe that she wasn't giving it all up for a slim-chance at love. Her career was entirely too important to her not to take it seriously. But Belle had known, from the very moment he suggested it, that she wasn't going anywhere. That scared her too. He made her reckless, in all the best ways.

Five years in France at a remote country home sounded like an eternity, and even if the opportunity never presented itself again – even if she'd just let her ticket to the rest of the world slip right through her fingers – it was becoming increasingly difficult for Belle to imagine herself enjoying all that travel and museum-hopping alone. She'd miss him. And that was reason enough to stay.

She did love him. He challenged her in ways that made her go a little weak at the knees, and his bullying, sneering days seemed almost entirely behind him. It might not be healthy, but she got a little thrill at the differences in his behavior between her and other people. Other people were obstacles, but he always treated Belle like a small delight. It was that dangerous charisma again, the kind that pulled people into his own closed-off universe, and for the first time Belle wasn't sure she'd mind.

Knowing that she could have taken this job, that she'd been good enough for it, did wonders for her confidence, but she still needed a few more minutes alone with her choice before she took the truth to Anthony. What if he really didn't want her, and it was just his overly-polite way of telling her not to bother him again? She could see him paying-off annoyances with a new job abroad as easily as a good shove to the curb and curt nod farewell.

That was it, then. She had to tell him about her choice and her reasons, and hope for the best. It was almost funny. The anxiety about her future usually came from concerns about working. Art conservation was not a growth industry. Belle didn't think she'd been this worked up about man problems since her late teens, as an undergrad. It bode well for the pair of them, she decided, and let herself out of the conference room into the building's bureaucratic-busy-work traffic.

Much as she wanted to run up to his office, Mary Margaret be damned, and tell him everything, Belle waited. There was a certain decorum and propriety and... why was this man trying to hand her a manilla envelope for delivery? He's mistaken her for an intern, obviously. The envelope had Gold's name on it, so Belle took it and tucked it away for later. It couldn't be that important, if he'd just handed it off haphazardly.

Across the building, Gold was almost sick with worry. Sick, an ready to throttle the next cretin from accounting who leered at Belle's backside when she wasn't looking. Being the king of his own castle, in terms of real estate, had its advantages. One of which was, certainly, unrestricted access to the 24/7 live-feed of security footage. He could see everything in a fragmented birds-eye-view, and all of the rules and ethics could go to hell.

What he didn't have, sadly, was a closed-circuit feed of the interview as it broadcast inside his conference room. He'd have to fix that. Work for the day wasn't even a flicker of thought, not even a memory. Mary Margaret could handle any emergency, as long as David Nolan didn't have his tongue down her throat, and he wasn't sure he cared if she performed poorly anyway. Belle liked her, and that was really the best recommendation he could give anybody.

Belle, he'd decided early-on in their arguments about how her interview should take place, was absolutely insane. He'd offered her everything – passage to France, a weekend in Paris, a severance bonus he'd strong-armed Hopper into tacking on to her new contract. And she stalwartly refused it all. Wanted to do a video conference, from right here in the heart of his domain.

When he insisted that she was being unreasonable, she'd replied: "No, I'm not. And that's why you're angry." She couldn't have aroused him more if she'd tried. (OK, so that was a lie.) Belle had him wrapped around her little finger, and it felt so good to see her smile that he didn't even have the energy to muster up a decent bought of melancholia over it. She was leaving soon. She'd leave with a smile. That would help, he knew.

So it was settled. She was patiently planning her escape from him, and he was the besotted voyeur too miserable _not_ to watch. Hell, he'd handed her the gate key and a map. Train wrecks and tempests came to mind.

Gold kept telling himself that he was doing the right thing for Belle. She deserved happiness, and he was sure he couldn't give it to her. Then there were the fantasies. The jealous rages. And the possessive streak. Maybe twelve years ago, give or take, it wouldn't have bothered him at all, but Gold already knew where that kind of behavior would lead.

She'd try to leave, like Bae had, only this time he wouldn't respond with a challenge and let his prize dance off into the night. Gold knew himself, knew his tastes. He was just as likely to drag her back to him kicking and screaming as he was bully and break her, to keep her from every leaving in the first place. The thought of Belle, broken by his own hand, devastated him. Yes, getting her to leave now was right.

When Belle finally emerged from the conference room, Anthony made a hasty retreat back to his office and tried to look busy. He did have real, meaningful work to do, but all of that could wait. He had to see her. Surely she would come and tell him good bye?

Then again, maybe he should lock the door, turn the lights out and hide. He poured himself a stiff drink. Then another. Her knock came too soon.

Before he could decide what to do, the choice was made for him. Belle walked into his office, looking a little unsure of herself but determined to speak her mind. She had a tea tray. Of course she'd brought tea – it was their daily tea time. And it looked like she had a packet of something else in her hand - the new contract, probably.

Best to tear his heart out in one fell swoop. "How soon do you start, dearie?"

"I don't."

He couldn't have heard that right. They intended to offer her the job, he knew that for a fact. But Belle didn't lie. "You aren't seriously telling me they didn't make you an offer?"

"No, no. They did. But I turned them down. I want to stay -"

He didn't give her a chance to finish. Belle was his now, come what may. His brain told him that she deserved better than what he could give her propped up on the surface of his small wet bar, with the office door not even locked. Then she was tugging at his neck tie, and it didn't matter any more.

His cane lie, forgotten, propped against his desk, and his hands found Belle's elegantly coiffed hair the same instant his mouth found her lightly rouged lips. Eventually there was nothing between them but air, and after a few more minutes even that breath of space became theirs.

_There will be a Wedge of Lemon coming shortly, picking up where we leave off. Maybe not until tomorrow, depending on how long my focus lasts. _


	17. Chapter 17

_Go check out A Wedge of Lemon with Your Tea (M, link from profile) if you want to see a more mature side of the Belle-Gold scene between Ch. 16 an 17. If not, then without further delay I present Tea Time!_

When they finally collected themselves and achieved some semblance of cleanliness and dress, Belle found Anthony unwilling to let go of her. It was small – a hand on her hip, a finger on the rim of her cheek. But when he sat down in his large, upholstered desk chair and pulled her along with him into his lap, the small touches became a full embrace, and he had his mouth once more at her neck.

"Belle..." He was teasing her with his teeth. "Come home with me."

For the life of her, she wasn't sure if he was asking her or telling her, but she found herself agreeing anyway.

"OK, but I have a little work to do before the end of the day..."

Gold moaned into her neck, staging a little protest as he held her tight. "Stay."

"Just for a little while," she murmured, pressing a small kiss into his hair line. Belle hadn't pegged him for a cuddler, but he seemed to crave touch like a cat, pressing himself into her everywhere he could. It was amazing, seeing him vulnerable and open like this.

He lifted her easily into a more comfortable position, slid his chair up to the desk, and started typing an email with his chin perched cozily on her shoulder. Well, maybe he hadn't changed that much, she considered.

"Oh, you're allowed to work and I'm not?"

"That's the short version, yes." He pulled her around so their eyes could meet. "I'm giving Mary Margaret instructions for the day; we're leaving early."

"Anthony, I can't run away from my duties to go make love with my boss."

"No, not regularly. I rather suspect that might reflect poorly on your performance reviews. But I have it on good authority that the old bastard has several hours of over-time planned for you."

Belle laughed despite herself, and the matter seemed settled. "You're not a bastard. But I do have something boss-y for you." Belle leaned out to the tea tray and fetched the envelope that the man had handed her after her video interview. "Someone pawned this off on me downstairs, I think he thought I was an intern."

Gold chuckled and pressed a kiss onto her shoulder, letting her up again. "We'll have to fix that, dearie. You're nobody's lackey."

He tore the flap open and started shuffling through the documents. "Well, it's just an envelope; delivering some papers never hurt anybody," Belle said kindly.

When Anthony looked up at her again, his whole demeanor was changed. Belle recognized his expression – she'd seen it before, when he was past reason and screaming. His eyes were stony, severe like a statue and glaring like a devil. "Who gave you this? Is this supposed to be some kind of joke? A last-ditch money grab? Or is this just you, burning your bridges and bidding the old boss good riddance on the way to that fancy new job?"

"Anthony, what's the matter?"

"THIS is the matter!" He was on his feet, thrusting an enlarged photograph into Belle's face.

"I don't... Is this your son?" In the space of a second he'd snatched the photograph back. His face looked panicked, then sober. Belle peeked at it over the desk.

The photo was grainy, obviously enlarged from an old negative that hadn't been well maintained. It was him, some 20 years younger, standing on a dock with a pair of crutches. To his left stood a somewhat frail-looking, older man, and to his right – nearly out of the frame – was a young boy playing with a wooden ship.

But Gold wasn't looking at Bae, hadn't even noticed him until Belle pointed him out. He was looking at Nikolai Zoso, linchpin in the _bratva_ supply line, standing next to a young Anthony Gold and looking entirely smug. It could unmake every ounce of work he'd done to build a reputation for himself in this city. The photograph was poison, blackmail in the purest sense.

"Where did you get this, Belle?"

"I don't know who the man was. Nice suit, dark skin. A little gray at the temples. Anthony, is everything alright?"

If looks could flay skin and break bones, Mr. Gold's would've devastated an army. "Sydney Glass..." Belle did not envy that Glass man his fate if he was guilty of Gold's unfathomable crime. "Go back down to your work, Belle. I'll get to you in a moment."

"Anthony..."

"Go!"

Belle didn't know what was worse – the confusion, a desperate sense that she'd finally found something honest and real with Anthony and didn't understand why he was rejecting her, or the shame, and she'd never been ashamed of anything that had happened between them before today. It was everything she could do not to yelp as he pushed her out the door, into Mary Margaret's reception area.

It took nerves of stone to walk without crying or trembling too much toward the elevator. She knew she looked mussed. She knew they were looking at her, thinking unkind things. When Belle made it to her canvas, she crawled on top of the scaffold and cried.

As soon as the door shut, Gold was dialing. Regina's duplicitous secretary was about to be in a world of pain. He couldn't have repeated back what he said if he tried, the rage poured out of him in wordy waves and the other man was making a fearful confession within minutes of answering.

When Gold was finally satisfied that Regina didn't know anything worth his time, he slammed the receiver into its cradle and stormed out of his office toward Belle's work-room. Mary Margaret tried to speak to him, but he pushed her aside with a glare and kept walking. He would get to the bottom Belle's involvement with Regina, and no amount of gypsy smiles and bright eyes were going to get in the way.

"Belle! Belle? Where are you?" The other peons working in his building had scattered like sheep in his wake, but Belle never cowered from him. Not even when she was in the wrong.

"Go away!"

From the sound of her voice, he thought she must be in the next room. He found her, dress crumpled, on the top of her rickety old scaffold. "Come down here, please."

"After what you did to me? No, Anthony. Just leave me alone."

"What I did to you? What I did to _you_. Oh, aye, that's likely. So tell me, Miss French, have you been in Regina's pocket the whole time or is Sydney paying you? Or was the payoff supposed to be me? Could you really be a common fortune-hunter? Did you really turn down that job in France, or was that a lie too?"

"You complete and utter ass hole. You had sex with me _in your office_, you let me love you, and then shoved me out the door, screaming, with absolutely no explanation. I don't care what you think I did or whose building this is, stay the hell away from me."

Every ounce of blood and fury drained simultaneously from Gold's mind and sank to a deep cesspool in the bottom of his stomach. Glass had confessed to setting Belle up; the whole affair had Regina's claw marks all over it, anyway. So why hadn't that been good enough?

He'd never considered her feelings at all. And now his precious, courageous Belle was ordering him to go away. Of course he'd ruined it for himself, just like with Bae. But the timing was a new personal best, he thought with a black chuckle at his own expense.

Every time Gold thought of Belle, he thought of himself keeping her safe and intimidating away her other admirers. He saw himself giving her everything she could possibly want, and keeping her safe from all harm. But he was the one hurting her now. The damn photo wasn't even that damning. It might rate the fifth page of a second-rate paper, at best.

You stupid, stupid man. No one can ever love you, you're worthless. The first time you get something worth keeping, all you can do is ball it up and throw it away.

Gold was overcome by self-pity. He wanted to hold her and beg her to forgive him, that much was true. But another, darker part of him wanted to destroy something lovely out of sheer spite and grief. He couldn't keep acting the fool in an office full of people, either. Suddenly the room was closing in and he needed to escape.

"Belle... please. Please just come with me and we'll take a walk outside and I will apologize. I didn't... I never..."

"No, Anthony. Please. Please, just go away."

In a fit of rage, he turned around and brought down his cane on a ludicrously expensive Greek vase. The clay shattered, Belle screamed, and Gold's cell phone – his personal line – started to ring. He moved as though to smash it against the wall, but the number on the display caught his eye.

"What the hell do you want, Jefferson?"

Belle wasn't entirely sure what happened next, all she knew for sure was that Anthony had collapsed on the cold cement floor after a long pause in the conversation, and he seemed to be in some sort of shock.

It was impossible for her not to take pity, and as soon as she came within his arm's reach he had her wrapped in a desperate and clinging hug. Every fiber in her being wanted to punch him bloody, but she couldn't. What she'd taken as pained breathing was not, in fact, a heart attack. Gold was weeping.

"Anthony, are you alright? What did that man say to you?"

A look of stunned disbelief crossed his face. "It.. it's Bae. My son. He... he's dead."


	18. Chapter 18

_Enjoy your cuppa, TheDoctorsGirl42 – it's Tea Time. _

Belle hadn't seen him in three days. Not since he'd fallen, a shaking wreck, into a heap on the cold cement floor of her workshop and lain, trembling, in some sort of shock for a full half hour. She hadn't known what to do for him then, the pain of whatever ill-explained argument they'd been having before he'd shoved her out of his office, not thirty minutes after taking her against the wet bar, had still been too fresh to hold him to her bosom and pet him like a child. But the man's son had just died – Baelfire, the boy (well, he must be a man by now) who had mangled his father's heart – and she could no more turn him away than she could kiss him better.

They made a tragic pair, in nearly every sense of the word, and both of them were powerless to overcome it. Everything was just too fresh, old wounds had been torn open and rubbed raw. Seeing Anthony's faced crumble and his high-spires and arches fall to reveal the aching wooden timbers and time-worn foundations was almost a relief after seeing the storm of stony faces and alleged betrayal in his office earlier, but nothing he could do to her in the space of a single afternoon would ever amount to the trauma of learning that a son, once lost, was now lost forever.

She'd simply let him hold her, content to be near him because they were friends and – for a few hours, anyway – she'd thought she loved him. But he didn't love her, and that was what settled it; so, when Gold finally looked up like a stricken animal and leaned in to kiss her, she stopped him. And he picked up his rubble, honed his expression into a facsimile of himself, and walked away without so much as a word or a look over his shoulder.

Belle's heart ached for him, and for herself. It seemed impossible that everything could have changed in the space of a single afternoon, but there it was – she'd sacrificed something to be with him and he didn't want her, he'd lost something irreplaceable and she couldn't comfort him. If it didn't hurt her inside and out every single day, it would almost be funny; the kind of black humor that sinks into desperation and forces you to laugh if you want to survive. There was nothing for it, except time, so she'd treated herself to a few beers and carried on.

On the third day of pretending it didn't hurt, Mary Margaret called her.

"Belle, I know I don't have any right to ask after... I don't know what happened between you two, it didn't look good. A funeral parlor keeps calling and he won't say why. He hasn't left his office since Tuesday. I think he's sleeping in there. All he'll do is drink that vile Scotch and throw things at whoever comes through the door.

"Please, Belle. Please try to talk to him. I wouldn't ask if there was anyone else, I looked through his contacts, his emergency information... it's all blank, yours is the only personal number listed. If you can't do it, I think I need to call the hospital. I know it's unfair of me. I'm sorry."

And what was she supposed to say to that? No, let them drag him away and put him in a padded room? He'd humiliated – well, severely offended – her, and his temper had got the better of him. With the space of three days to recover and with him having an equal time to grieve, Belle had to let her pride fall away. He was her friend, before everything went so terribly wrong.

And he hadn't lied to her and lured her into a trap, it seemed one of his business partners had done that; he never asked her to become emotionally attached, either. That was all her own doing. So, Anthony Gold, the man who seemingly had everything, needed a friend. And if Mary Margaret's rambling phone call was anything to go by, he needed one badly.

"Mary Margaret... no, no. Don't apologize. It's fine. I'll... I'll come. Yes, really. Whatever's between us, he needs someone. Just... have a town-car on standby, OK? I'm going to try to take him home. Yes, my home. Well, he can't be alone, apparently, and I'm not going to his place for the first time like this! Just give the driver my address. Thanks. I'll be upstairs in a minute."

She'd found him just as Mary Margaret had said – sitting at his desk, reeking of Scotch and sweat, and already hoarse from shouting himself silly at the last three days worth of people brave or stupid enough to venture into his little lair. There was even a large amount of shrapnel and broken crockery by the door, much of which came from her little blue-on-white porcelain tea set, a pair of cut-glass decanters (presumably emptied) and a lamp shade.

Gold had looked like death, aged ten years in the space of three days, with dark circles under his eyes and his long hair hanging lank and greasy. He'd looked ready to hurl another bottle toward the door when Belle walked in, but whatever attachment or sentiment he'd once felt for her stilled his hand. He looked absurd, really. Sitting amidst a sea of paper and broken things, sipping whiskey out of his favorite chipped tea cup – somehow lucky enough to survive the maelstrom – and staring her down like a hunter looks at his prey. He was his own self-sustaining mad tea party, if the smell of him was anything to go by.

"Anthony, it's time to get up and go home," she'd told him firmly, setting his chipped cup down on the far side of his desk.

He'd stumbled to his feet, taken a few tumultuous steps forward, and then looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time again. Belle knew she'd never forget the way he reached an unsteady arm toward her and applied a gentle pressure to her shoulder, testing, and asked if she was real. It hurt her heart. Everything about the whole mess they were in positively ached.

Of course, Gold had ruined it half a minute later by brazenly hugging her and then asking if he knew her.

It wasn't fair, but then life rarely was. Belle had wanted to stomp her feet, cry and scream all at the same time. Instead, she'd somehow found the strength to assure him that he would know her, soon, and started the laborious task of herding him out toward the elevator. Everyone else in the lobby could just get a good look and move the hell out of her way – her attitude must have conveyed some of that, because she felt the curtain of privacy unique only to voluntary blindness slip into place as the pair of them began their descent.

The car ride had been nothing less than torturous. He'd sobered up just enough to know that he was in pain, drunk and grieving, and he resented everything and everybody. Really, Belle almost wished that she'd thought to bring along a bottle just to shut him up, but he was already lucky that they weren't on their way to the hospital to have his stomach pumped. She'd learned quickly that the easiest way to subdue him was by simply holding his hands gently in her own; he seemed incapable of breaking them away, and it spared all manner of half-mad flailing.

And the walk up the stairs once they arrived at her building? Belle had dreamed a very different fantasy about the old stairwell, but now her dearest hope was that she'd never have to ascend it again as a human crutch. She wanted to kick herself – he was useless on his own, and she kept dropping his cane. They were both equally sweaty by the time she unlocked her door, only he smelled worse.

"Belle, Belle..." he'd been a stammering mess before she'd settled him into her own bed to sleep off the crash. Between the accent and slurring, he was almost unintelligible, but that part – the part he kept repeating at uneven intervals – came through clearly. "Belle. No one... no one can ever love me."

He'd slept, finally. After she'd forced him to drink lukewarm chamomile tea and eat a few very precarious bites of dry toast. Belle hadn't known what to do. His blackberry was off, so she turned it on to text Mary Margaret. He had scores of missed calls, all of them from business associates and Mary Margaret's extension, and one from the same unknown number with multiple tries.

She'd called the unknown number first. It wasn't her job. He might go into a rage again, and it was probably unwise, but she didn't know what more she could do for him. As she suspected, it was the funeral director. They'd cremated Bae's remains – needed to know when he'd be by to pick them up, if he wanted any kind of special service, if there would be a memorial in some local cemetery... Belle took down their information, asked what she thought would be important questions, and wrote it all down for Anthony.

That was her last cogent memory – crying for a child, a man, she'd never known, and the father whose world was at the black center of a swift collapse. Everything else was blurry – forcing him to sit down and make arrangements, picking up dry-cleaning, bathing, cooking... it was worse when he was sober. Drunk, he talked at her and raged in his own deaf sorrow; sober, he was simply quiet and glowering.

In their mutual daze, he'd followed her everywhere for a whole two days, and then the floodgates had burst. Gold told Belle everything – how he'd nearly died the last time he lost Bae, how the child loved football and hated tinned beans, how his pride had stopped him from looking for his son when he'd still had a reasonable chance of finding him. Neither of them talked about their own relationship, because that wasn't the point. Gold didn't move to kiss her again, and she did not flinch at his proximity.

The exhaustion was palpable on both of them, yet they found themselves standing among a group of half a dozen mourners – Mary Margaret and Emma from the office, Ruby and Mrs. Lucas from their favorite cafe, and even Archie Hopper from HR – while the pipes played a lowing, mournful melody.

Gold hadn't been able to bring himself to speak, or to hire a priest. So, the seven of them stood as sentinels while the pipes keened, and Belle concluded the affair herself by reading the inscription on the hastily-engraved marker-stone.

_Baelfire Gold_

_1982-2003_

_Spira, spera. _


	19. Chapter 19

_Thank you all for the great reviews, you guys. The readership of this fic just exploded in that last chapter – welcome to all the new (or newly vocal) readers. Just for you, Paulawer, it's time for tea!_

Things between them were finally approaching normalcy. Belle simply didn't have it in her heart to stay angry with him, and the loss of his son had taken most of the fight out of Gold anyway – at least as it pertained to her. He hadn't said a cross word to her since he got the call that afternoon.

The first few days following Bae's service, Gold had remained in her apartment. Common sense told both of them that they couldn't carry on in that manner indefinitely, but neither of them made any move to change their arrangements. For Belle, that Gold seemed to need a companion was reason enough to let him stay. They both needed the time to adjust, and each felt glad for the other's company.

It started slowly, but Belle noticed. One day he snatched his blackberry off the table before she could pick it up and check the caller ID. Before, if it was Mary Margaret, Belle always answered for him. By the second day of mourning, he took those calls himself. Eventually, he started responding to emails and text messages, gaining a handle on his neglected business.

It astounded her, the first time he answered his phone verbally. Anthony had been with her for nearly five days, and she thought it might be the first time he'd spoken to anyone other than herself. And they did speak: he'd ask Belle what Mary Margaret had to say, and give his perspective on some of his business dealings; she'd regale him with some obscure bit of trivia, and he'd quip back appropriately; sometimes they just told stories from their youth, steering clear of anything tainted by undue gloom. Belle, knowing next to nothing about finance and acquisitions, made a terrible go-between, but he seemed to appreciate her attempts to keep his company afloat through the first few days. She hadn't lost him too much money, at any rate.

Of course, the first phone call he took just had to be Regina Mills, the woman who – for at least the past week – had been the single target of Anthony's ire. He'd explained to Belle, in a round-about-way, who the about the older man in the photograph. Belle knew there must be more to the story, for him to react as violently as he did, but she appreciated his attempt anyway.

Belle also learned one very important thing from that first phone call: Anthony hadn't been angry with her, not really. He'd felt threatened and cornered, had reacted poorly, but he hadn't acted with the intent to harm her. She knew what that looked like now – his interactions with Regina were brutal, intense, and almost cruel. It turned her stomach to see that look on his face, but a deeper more primal part of her liked that he was enraged on her behalf. Regina had threatened Gold with an old photograph, she'd dragged Belle into her scheme too; Belle did not like to be used, she liked to be in control of her own destiny. Even more, she liked that Anthony seemed to feel the same way.

Watching as he rebuilt his mental walls her small living room, Belle gained a new eye for the moods of Anthony Gold. She'd seen gargoyles and precipices before, and when he was feeling gentle he'd even opened the imposing wooden doors to let her stand at the antechamber where she could catch glimpses of the inner sanctum. Now, it seemed, he was repairing his defenses and preparing to face the public again, except Belle had been made a fixture on the inside.

His sanctuary, the private thoughts and sights that moved and motivated him, were slowly coming to light for Belle. She could see the fragments of dusty stained-glass windows, and knew that – if she waited for the dawn – images would take shape.

Belle, for all her admiration of his fortitude, became acutely aware that he had to return to his own home soon. She couldn't mother him, couldn't form a cozy codependency from which neither of them would emerge unscathed. She loved him, she wanted him, and she wanted him to want those things too. If a car drove by in the street blaring _Cheap Trick_ before he tried to kiss her again, she was going to lose her damn mind.

And... it had to be his move, really. How could she ask him to be romantic in the wake of his only son's memory? His private investigator, a man named Jefferson, said Bae had died in Afghanistan, pretty close to the time the heavy fighting had started.

He'd been reporting, a freelance writer operating under some kind of pseudonym. It had taken years to track his movements abroad, and then several more months to recover the remains and confirm their identity, especially since the boy traveled on his UK passport. But the results were there; the DNA matched, as did the dental records, per the coroner's report, and Anthony was utterly destroyed. Now was not a good time to press her lips to his and put another difficult choice in his lap.

That was the rub, really. She loved him, but he didn't love her. Anthony liked her, and he respected her most of the time, but aside from their few stolen moments pressed against one another on his wet bar and cuddling on his office chair, his affections remained hard to discern. He found her attractive, probably intelligent... Belle didn't know what else she could do. She was worth loving. Her father, once upon a time, hadn't thought so, but that was just a long-lost memory. Belle knew her own heart, and she knew she wasn't going to settle for anything less.

Finally, a week after the funeral, Anthony returned to his own home and started going to work every day. The lost time cost him, obviously, but one of the advantages to being more-or-less in charge of his own enterprises meant that no one got to criticize his absences.

The same could not be said for Belle. She'd had the vacation time, certainly, but her work was nearing its critical stage. Despite making the most of her days with Anthony in her home, she'd still fallen behind on some of her key pieces of research.

For the next fortnight, Belle worked frantically and Anthony did the same. Both had ground to cover, and each one needed space. But the space kept stretching, as did the time. They passed the winter holidays peacefully, exchanging small gifts and even meeting on New Year's Eve for dinner... but Gold never kissed her at midnight. She would wait, she knew. She would wait for him for a long time, even passing on that job in France to stay by his side. But she couldn't wait forever, and that was something she direly hoped Anthony knew.

Belle still brought him his tea every day, and stayed to talk about anything from Aristotle to the weather. Mary Margaret treated both of them sympathetically, and Gold seemed to remember that she was one of the few who'd turned up at his son's funeral when he slipped into one of his moods. Mary Margaret appreciated that, and she and Belle were good friends again in no time.

Belle hadn't noticed her friend pulling away in the time she'd been dating Anthony, but it made sense. He was Mary Margaret's boss, after all, and he'd been known to fire people for crimes less severe than fraternizing with one of his girls. But, of course, Belle hadn't been one of his girls. She was _the_ girl, Mary Margaret just needed the two of them to see that.

They had a lot of catching up, it seemed. Mary Margaret was, finally, being honest about her relationship with David Nolan. She insisted that he was leaving his wife, but Belle had her doubts. It wasn't that Mr. Nolan didn't love Mr. Gold's secretary – anyone with eyes could see that he did – but he'd been married to his wife since college, and his loyalties (if not his love) ran deep.

Only time would tell for them, Mary Margaret decided, and the pair bonded again over their unlikely, unresolved love lives. Mr. Humbert's assistant, Emma, occasionally joined them in their misery. Hers was a more difficult case – there was a custody battle going on over her son, Henry, and a law firm that Regina Mills owned was giving her grief. To say the office was tense in the days leading to Valentine's Day was a gross, mean understatement.

Gold hated these blasted imaginary holidays. Mother's Day, Father's Day, Valentine's Day... he used to hate Father's Day the most, but this year the bloody cupids were giving him a run for the money.

Belle was a problem. Well, more of an obsession really. He couldn't hide from her any more, and that scared him. She was still beautiful and lovely, but it felt somehow like a betrayal to Bae that he wanted to reach out to her – to treat her like she was his new family. Nothing would ever replace Baelfire. Not ever. He didn't want to love anything he could lose so easily again, til his dying day.

So, when New Year came, he didn't kiss her. She looked a little disappointed, but then... she hadn't kissed him, either.

At the end of the day, he'd rather have her safe and with him and chaste, in whatever strange compromise they'd found themselves after his son died, than to have her flushed and wild and eventually running away.

The Regina problem was well in hand, at least he'd had that to distract himself of late. The missing piece was due to arrive in the city within the month, and then she'd be seriously sorry. It was a subtle game of cat-and-mouse, but Regina's greatest flaw was ever thinking herself a player in the first place. She was a pawn, or maybe a rook. Certainly not a queen or knight. But she was black, and – in a stunning piece of irony – he found himself painted white.

True, his intentions were selfish, but the end result would still benefit the greater good. All he needed was to slide the poisoned pawn into place.

On the evening of February 13, Gold was sorely tempted to drink. David Nolan was in his office, looking for romantic advice of all things. He wanted a nice restaurant to take darling Mrs. Nolan to, but in between the lines he was asking if there was a secluded place where he could enjoy his mistress' company.

The damned fool even had two cards, yet when Gold called him out he insisted that both were for his wife. The duplicity sickened Anthony. He was a difficult man to love, and he did not give his own love easily ,but his affections - once given - were not easily divided. He could not imagine himself ever cheating on Belle.

She was his tipping point, really. How long had he loved his little gypsy? Since she'd made his tea just right? Since she'd carried herself like a queen in that sheer gold monstrosity? Since she'd held his hand, and smiled gently? There was a time when, he was reasonably sure, she would have indulged him – and maybe learned to reciprocate. But of course, he'd ruined it for himself. And then Bae...

The worst part was knowing what he was missing by keeping his thoughts and feelings at bay. He'd felt the warmth of her body, been comforted by her deft hands in his hour of need, and she kept him constantly amused with her quick tongue and clever mind. Forgetting for a moment about the mess that seemed to blow through in her wake, the insatiable curiosity that led her to things he'd rather leave unseen, her refusal to be cowed even when she knew he was right... Forgetting the myriad of reasons that the stubborn woman would make an even more stubborn mate, there was a still, small voice standing in his way.

Because every time Gold envisioned himself gazing into Belle's eyes, her lips swollen and her hair mussed, she smiled and said, "Anthony, I love you."

And then, no matter how he tried, his own subconscious whispered back, "That's a lie."


	20. Chapter 20

_Tonight we're serving sweet tea. __Bon appétit_.  


He _would_ have to ask her out on one of his infernal business dates for Valentine's Day. Never mind that it was the first time he'd voluntarily socialized with other people since the funeral, it was still a non-date on the romantic super-holiday of the year. He'd asked her last-minute too, like he knew she wouldn't have other plans. Or perhaps he just didn't realize it was February yet.

Belle wasn't sure which scenario displeased her more. Of course she didn't have Valentine's Day plans with anyone else, but no one liked to be taken for granted. And if he didn't even know the date, then she was going to have to sit him down and talk to him seriously about trying grief counseling again. Neither was a particularly exciting reality to face.

When they walked out of the building together, his town car was not waiting. Instead, one of the parking attendants had brought around the beautiful old Cadillac that he kept in pristine condition and drove less than once a week.

"We're taking the caddy?" she asked, looking at the car as he ushered her into the passenger side door. The smell of the leather seats hit her suddenly, and she instantly remembered their first date.

"Well it is my car. And I may have exaggerated when I said this was a business need," he replied, knowing what it was Belle had truly asked him.

"Are you taking me out for Valentine's Day?"

"I'm taking you out. If you'll have me?"

"I.. yes, of course. But I wish you'd said something. I thought... and I'm dressed for a stock meeting."

"We can stop at a boutique along the way."

Belle shook her head no, and Gold continued talking as they pulled into traffic.

"As a matter of fact, I didn't know what I was doing until I saw David today. I can be an idiot sometimes."

"And.. David made you less of an idiot? Mary Margaret's David?"

"He is _not_ hers, dearie. That man has a complicated life. He can't decide whether he loves his wife or his mistress, and he had the audacity to ask me for discreet dating advice. But I know what I want, Belle. And I don't want anyone to think I'm being _discreet_ about it. Let me spoil you a little tonight?"

"You know you don't need to spoil me, ever. But I do desperately need a be-with-my-guy night."

"Yours, am I?"

"Aren't you?"

"Aye." And you're mine.

Anthony found them a parking space in a private garage near one of the city's posh restaurant and shopping clusters, and he insisted on buying Belle a new dress for their date. More to the point, he'd already purchased a new dress in her size and they were simply going by the shop so she could change and pick up anything else she might like. If he seemed oddly pleased when she declined his offer of the designer's in-house jewelry, Belle didn't notice.

The dress was, in a word, lovely. Anthony always liked to pick out her clothes, and Belle usually objected to the high-handedness of it all, but she sensed that particular quirk was his way of making up for the Gold Dress Fiasco of their first business event. This dress was worlds away from the first one, and it spoke volumes about how well he knew her tastes and preferences.

Never one to fuss, Belle opted to keep her flesh-tone pumps and twist her hair up into a quick chignon. She did a little curtsy-spin for Anthony, and the skirt of her off-the-shoulder, teal cocktail dress twirled around her like a chiming _Emmanuel_. The color suited her, she knew; brought out her eyes.

Anthony's face was clouded with the kind of intensity she'd rarely seen in him since the funeral; even if she'd hated it, she would have worn it anyway. He seemed to paint her with his eyes, and ran his hands through hair like he was willing his mind to absorb it all, quickly. Belle loved watching his hands move. As an artist, she found them breathtaking. Their width, tapered fingers and subtle signs of age spoke volumes about the man they belonged to. His hands were some of the first sketches she'd made in their afternoon teas, before he finally opened up and started talking to her almost every day.

Then his hands became fidgety, and Belle knew how much he hated fidgeting in anybody. He was flexing his fingers a little too much when he opened his coat and reached for something inside.

"I was going to wait to give you this," he said as they left the shop, sounding a bit unsure of himself as they walked (slowly, to accommodate his cane) toward the restaurant he'd selected. "But since you're in such a good mood as to indulge an old man his trinkets..."

He produced a teal box from his waistcoat, complete with a small silver-white bow.

"Oh, Anthony, you don't have to..."

"No, but I want to. This one is special. You'll like it."

Belle kissed him softly, still unsure how far she could push their intimacy. Everything was new again, they were still feeling out one another in this sad, new world where he was a grieving father. "Thank you."

"Woman! At least open the damn thing first," he grumbled, thrusting the package toward her.

"I'm sure I'll love it," she replied, untying the small bow. Belle lifted off the box lid and gasped. "Oh, Anthony..."

"I ordered it months ago. You wear your other one so rarely, and since I deprived you of Tiffany before I thought... maybe something you could wear for every-day?"

All Belle could do was nod, turn around and let him clasp it behind her neck.

Anthony loved seeing her wearing something that branded her, irrefutably, as his. And this necklace did make her his – it was undeniably _theirs_. On the thin platinum chain hung a delicate, platinum tea cup – custom crafted to his specification with a small chip in the rim – and the teal-enameled design perfectly matched the one he kept in his office.

It was the cup she'd chipped the day they first met, and the only piece to survive his deaf rage in the days preceding Bae's death. Of course, he hadn't known that when he'd ordered it – back then it was just a cup, a cheeky nod in her direction. Now it was everything. Now _Belle_ was everything. Maybe she always had been.

"It's perfect," she whispered before peppering his mouth with kisses as he wrapped his arms around her. "Thank you. It's perfect. I didn't get you anything, I wasn't sure..."

"You're here, somehow, in spite of everything. That's enough for me, dearie. And... I'll do my damnedest, Belle. I won't give you a reason to be unsure again."

"Shall we skip dinner then?" she asked, pressing a small kiss into the valley between his neck and ear. She could feel his stubble brushing her cheek, and suddenly her fine dress and wool coat were entirely too much in the way.

Gold moaned against her hair, and bucked into her despite himself. "Hng.. God, Belle. No. No. I seem to recall a very fussy artist storming into my office and telling me that I had to take her out properly or stop sending mixed signals. I've taken you on one date. It's been a lifetime since then. Let me spoil you a little."

"You're going to ruin me," Belle teased back, nibbling on his jaw.

Gold was breathing heavily, but he managed to reply: "Aye, and you'll like it too."

Watching Belle eat was an excruciating delight. Her manners were impeccable, of course, but she made little noises of delight – not loud enough to qualify as moaning, but not soft enough to be mere chewing either – and the small French fusion restaurant seemed to make her very happy.

Getting a reservation on Valentine's Day at what was, undoubtedly, one of the city's most intimate hideaways, had not come cheaply. It was for moments like this that Anthony had cultivated a portfolio of properties, favors and influence. He'd always assumed it would come in handy, give him some meaningful inheritance other than money to pass to Bae, but seeing Belle happy was a worthy use of his sway.

Even if she didn't love him, Belle was honest and forthright. She would stay. She said it, and he'd never known her to break her word. And then, maybe some day... He could keep his fool's dream. As long as his pretty little gypsy kept smiling his way, there was always hope for that distant _someday_.

They stayed for dessert and drank a semi-sweet wine that made Belle a little tipsy. Gold was careful not to over-indulge, but he made sure to take down the vintage and vineyard's name. If she liked it, he liked it. That was the only philosophy that was keeping him sane, because without that mantra running through his head he might have given in to temptation and cleared the table with a wide sweep of his arm to make way for their bodies.

He didn't think he would have to ask her twice to go back to his home, but he'd drop her off and kiss her goodnight if that was what she wanted. Belle seemed more than pleased with the thought of finding a room earlier in the night, and her disposition had only improved with his old-fashioned attempts at wooing. A man could hope. He was rusty, that was the truth. None of the women before Belle ever asked anything more of him than a trite gift and a new dress. Finally seeing Belle accept what he considered standard pleasantries and affections set his mind at ease, but he knew he still owed her ambiance and a proper date.

When they slid into the seat of his car, Belle shifted herself into his lap and Gold nearly came undone. They kissed like lips were air, and when they finally parted Gold's mind was racing.

"Saturday tomorrow. Come home with me?" He might have been rambling, but it didn't matter.

Belle kissed him, nodded yes, and he whisked her away to his townhouse as fast as the old iron beast could drive.


	21. Chapter 21

_Sorry for the delayed update - there was a Wedge of Lemon (M-rated companion fic) that fits chronologically between chapters 20 and 21 if anyone's interested. Now then - time for Tea!_

They finally rolled out of bed some time after midnight to shower, kiss, and touch before falling gracelessly back into the sheets, both of them dripping wet. They made love slowly the second time, all of their urgency and clawing converted to kisses and caressing. Gold couldn't get enough of her, couldn't believe she was finally with him the way he'd envisioned in his more robust dreams.

Belle's small hands were leaving trails of fire up his arms and over his shoulders, and his lips were coaxing groans from hers that would have crippled him if he wasn't already laying down by her side.

He'd meant to give her the tour tonight; play host, at least a little bit. Gold could show her the townhouse after sun-up. Try to convince her that she should stay. For now, all his energies were focused on celebrating their newly reclaimed intimacy.

When they'd finished and showered again, Anthony held Belle close as she finally drifted off to sleep. He was too enchanted to look away, scared she'd vanish into the night if he so much as blinked. Her damp curls lay splayed across his chest, and one of his plush towels – once wrapped around her like a dress – was slipping open to reveal several more inches of creamy skin. Beautiful.

Gold could remember a time, it felt like several lifetimes, when he'd been intent on bullying the disheveled little painter for no reason other than his own amusement. Gaston, the twit, was philandering with one of his regular girls. He hadn't even been that upset, it was the principle of the thing. For the life of him, Gold couldn't remember the blonde woman's name any more; he wondered, momentarily, if he'd ever actually known it.

And then, before he even realized it, there was Belle. Vibrant and lovely and dancing, his little gypsy whirlwind. She was _kind_. That's what truly did him in. Gold could read the nastier aspects of humanity like a children's fairy book – they told their stories in their eyes and winces – but Belle had always been content to indulge him with their little tea parties. He was an old man, a deaf and half-blind fool, for not recognizing her as his savior immediately.

Then he'd taken up the mantel of the devilish authority – and he'd nearly ruined everything.

The memory of Belle wrapped in the sheer gold monstrosity that the department store had the gall to call a dress still irked him. It made her look cheap, but it also opened his eyes. He wanted her. Wanted her like a demon hell-bent on possessing something. Gold didn't even remember leaving the party, he was too focused on not doing something to the other men in the room – or, more depraved still, to Belle. Stuffy. That's what he'd said to her. So, even in his revenge and brimstone phase, he would play the fool always.

Next came the mantel of the ardent lover. Well, she'd seen through that too, hadn't she? It was laughable how bad he was at staging a seduction. Women normally responded to fine dresses and empty trinkets favorably, but not Annabelle French. For all his smoldering and wanting, Belle was never taken in by his superficial offerings. What kind of woman left a Tiffany & Co. box unopened? So the presents grew more lavish, and he found that he did sincerely want her to have them.

As far as Gold could tell, Belle didn't even like their business outings all that well. Most women in his circles swooned over things like that, would kill for the chance to rub elbows with powerful and influential people; even for the ones who had no use of his money, the power proved seductive.

It was for the best that Belle hadn't given in to his attempts to buy her favor. Turned him into some facsimile of a sincere and ardent lover, and all was calm and lovely on the surface. Then she'd denied him – some conference or another. He should have gone with her. She'd bloody asked him to take her, and like an idiot he hadn't been willing to enter her world, on her terms, and put his own obligations on hold for a few days.

He'd committed an infidelity. She was the air he breathed, and he'd gone running right back to the tarts and socialites despite all his infernal longing his thoughts full of only her. That Belle never knew about the red head – or was she blonde? – who'd climbed into his lap in the back of his town car was a small blessing. He'd keep that whole debacle to himself. It had worked out well, by some miracle, and that was more than he'd dared to hope for in a long time.

His little gypsy-dearie. It had taken him a long time to divorce the memory of her from the grief he felt over losing his son, but she'd waited. Gold hadn't realized how much of a crutch he'd made her, how much of the burden she bore for him, until weeks after the funeral. Even the small band of acquaintances who turned up to mourn with him were all her doing; he hadn't the heart to invite business relations. Mary Margaret, Graham's secretary, Hopper... even the women who staffed their favorite diner. Belle must have run herself ragged while he'd wallowed in sorrow and sobered up in her bed.

It still devastated him to think of Bae, long-dead, lying as carrion for the scavengers in some dismal, violent place. But his boy was home now. He'd been buried, and his father was starting to make peace with that.

Maybe, if he was very, very lucky, Belle would stay. He could protect her. Nikolai Zoso was due to arrive in the city in two days time, and then Regina would lose her silly illusion that she'd played Gold into some sort of impotent stalemate. She would lose the illusion that it was ever her game to play.

He'd considered, briefly, letting sleeping dragons lie. But the woman was a nuisance. And she'd targeted Belle. Her shoddy business practices and personal vendettas were running out of control, and – quite frankly – Gold wanted to hurt her.

Anthony pressed a kiss into Belle's temple, her tousled hair nearly dry and her breathing very regular. Of course she slept easily. Her conscience was light and airy, unburdened by his the regrets and plotting of old age. He'd never be what she deserved, but Anthony was past caring. He had her, like he'd dreamed of having her, and he intended to keep her safely by his side.

Two days later, when Old Nick's private jet touched down on the tarmac, Gold and his driver were there to meet him. Nikolai looked ancient – the years drifting from drink to drink had not been good to him – and he was being pushed along in a wheel chair by an enormous man in a suit-jacket. Well that was new. They'd have to hire another aide, a body guard out of the _bratva_'s local branch most likely, because Gold knew without asking that the man would not deign to use one of the new mechanized contraptions when his usual man needed to sleep.

But these things would come to them naturally, after they had a chance to speak privately.

Belle had more than enough of her own work to keep her busy, but she was worried about Anthony. They'd been involved for close to a month now, and – though it pained her to admit – she wondered if, perhaps, he was cheating. He worked constantly, of course. That was never really going to change. But they spent as much time together as they could – except for the hours every week when he utterly disappeared.

It was a silly thing to worry about. Anthony was crazy about her, he showed her that every day. But they'd never actually said the words... and, for all her bravery, Belle was afraid of how he'd react if she said it first. She knew him well enough at this point, she thought, that whatever reservations she felt about letting her feelings show must have been founded in something. A fear of rejection, some subtle hint that he wasn't quite ready.

Her father, her family, had not agreed. Belle was on her own when she left for college and broke her engagement, shattering the dream that she'd become a housewife who had babies and never left their rural county. That was never her dream, though. She wanted other things, and there were certain... certain cruelties, she supposed, that were harder to overcome than others.

Belle, despite her efforts to keep her work pure and rooted in history, saw splashes of Anthony everywhere across her copy of _Lovers Embrace_. A scowling brow, an Imp's smirk... All of it was coming together for her now. But there were also echoes of another man, one whose face she didn't really want to see. Always, _always_, her fabricated satyrs bore some semblance of her father's face.

There were more horrible things than what she'd been through. He'd gone temporarily insane, that's what the deacon of their church said anyway. But for Belle, who spent three days forcibly detained in her childhood bedroom unable to escape, their home remained a prison sentence. If it hadn't been for her then ex-fiance coming looking for her... There was no sense dwelling on those things.

She was free. Free and happy. If she saw shades of disappointment and fury in the Satyr's faces, it said more about the source material than it did about her life at present. It was a nightmare, one from which the lovers would surely wake.

Mostly, though, when she looked at the painting she saw Anthony. The hands, especially, bore a certain resemblance that anyone who'd made a study of them – which was only herself, hopefully – would notice in a heartbeat. Enough of the original existed that she didn't have to invent figures in large leaps, but she did have to fill in several muddled or missing blanks.

She didn't want to be ruled by fear, but it was a difficult thing to overcome. All her life, men had told Annabelle French how to live her life. Anthony's ambiguities...

Well, they were enough to give her pause, and make her over-think.

Anthony wasn't obligated to spend every free minute of his day in her company. Wherever he was sneaking off to lately, Belle simply had to let it be. She'd asked him once, and got one of his enigmatic chuckles for her trouble. But he kissed her sweetly and told her it was part of his upcoming business changes. She'd believe him. What choice did she have? She loved the miserable bastard.


	22. Chapter 22

"Ant," Belle asked him over tea one day, "Where do you go when you disappear after work each night?"

Of course she'd bloody noticed his absences; they were practically living together already, alternating between his home and her apartment regularly. Belle noticed everything, was naturally observant and had a painter's eye.

He hated lying. But Belle couldn't know that he spent his nights in a hotel room, conspiring with Nikolai Zoso to drive Regina Mills out of his company. If his anti-trust case against Regina had any hope of succeeding, he had to keep everything under wraps for as long as possible until all the pieces were in play. In Belle's case, protecting her from any involvement with either party – the mafia on one side and Regina's lackeys on the other.

"Just handling some paperwork with my lawyers, dearie. Nothing to worry yourself over." That was his go-to line, had been for nearly a month.

"Is everything OK at work? I mean, I know you're busy..."

"Aye, everything's fine, and anything leftover from when..." He'd grown accustom to pausing awkwardly whenever he meant to say _Bae died._ "...soon will be."

She kissed him sweetly and retreated into his over-sized kitchen. Belle did not cook dinner for them often, maybe once a week, and he'd missed it the last time she tried; came home too late. The whole business with Zoso and Regina couldn't end quickly enough for his tastes.

He'd considered, briefly, letting the matter drop and sending Zoso home to his mansion on the Black Sea. Old Nick had some very exacting ideas of what constituted justice and revenge. He would beat a man half to death for stealing, and – at one time – Anthony would have supported the choice.

Zoso, body fading but mind sharp as ever, did not want to waste time moving through conventional channels like the police and the press. He'd rather that Regina encounter an unpredicted accident and be done with the woman properly. Gold knew he could get away with it; he had enough favors built up among the _bratva_ that he could call up a professional hit man and wash his hands of it with a reasonable chance of impunity. To Zoso's thinking, cutting her brakes and breaking one of her kneecaps would make a good compromise – supposing that Gold didn't want Regina to die outright.

But... that was the kind of thing that drove his Bae to leave. And that was the kind of thing that would drive Belle away too. He just couldn't. Couldn't even...

If Belle tried to leave, Gold didn't know what he would do. He hoped, in time, he'd be strong enough to let her go when she was ready. Part of him still worried he was too weak to release her, though – that he might really snatch her up and lock her away, to keep her with him for the rest of their lives. That was his contingency plan, once upon a time. Belle deserved so much more than an old villain like him.

Gold told Zoso that it was a matter of principle. He _liked_ his business, liked working, liked the city. Didn't want to risk things going south and sending him to some God-be-damned non-extradition country. Zoso, of course, knew it was a lie. But, at least for the time being, Old Nick let it slide.

Belle's cooking was always good, something simple but wholesome and usually very colorful. For all that she savored their fancy dinners and late nights at Granny's, when left to her own devices Belle ate with her eyes. Carrots weren't even one of her favorite vegetables, but if she thought that orange would cheer up the plate she made them anyway; and that was nothing compared to the time she'd served him salmon steak with fresh blueberries. Delicious, yes, but definitely unconventional and chosen only for their color traits.

Anthony cooked only once or twice, usually something simple like cottage stew or shepherd's pie. The kinds of things he'd learned as a single parent, when the budget would stretch to it. Now budgeting was no object, though, and they were definitely eating-out types. That was a good thing, to his thinking. They'd never stop needing to eat. It gave them something resembling a date to look forward to when business needs, charity functions and Belle's expanding time-constraints kept them away from one another more frequently than he liked.

Still, the time-consuming business with Zoso was regrettable. That was time away from Belle, even if it would be for her own good, ultimately.

Belle had not meant to follow Anthony. She'd spotted him in the street, outside the Grande Hotel, wearing his round-framed sunglasses and looking sulky. Belle had another hour or so before her meeting with the curator of the Neoclassical wing of the Metropolitan Museum – she thought she'd go over and cheer him up with a peck on the cheek.

He was wrapped up in his blackberry, looking around expectantly, when a woman in a business suit and a large, muscular man wave him into the lobby. Belle called out to him, but he didn't hear.

She didn't really want to push the issue. They were getting comfortable, finally – domestic even. After all their ups and downs, something as mundane as her thinking he might be cheating... it seemed absurd that _that_ was what might finally break them apart. It would break them up, too, if she didn't say something. The not knowing and insecurities were ripping her up, even though she knew that Anthony liked her.

Liked, but not love. Well probably not love. Maybe. He valued her company and made love like a prodigy between the sheets, but the words never came out. The best Belle ever got was some garbled exclamation, unintelligible through the kisses and moaning, and then he would kiss her face and bury his nose in her hair with his toned arms wrapped around her. It felt like love, but that wasn't enough with the new-found paranoia. She'd never thought of herself as a jealous lover, but then – she'd never really been in love like this either. Belle _did_ love Gold. But she didn't want him to stay with her out of some twisted sense of gratitude for staying with him while he grieved.

The only way anything about their situation would improve was if she spoke – but what words to use? She could confront him, but that seemed premature. She could confess her feelings, but if he didn't reciprocate what was she going to do? Wait for him to feel the same? Leave him? Set an ultimatum and propose a time-line?

Nothing felt right.

Belle was still thinking about it when she joined him for tea that afternoon. Mary Margaret seemed used to their occasional midday trysting, and she usually kept his mid-afternoon schedule cleared out, but it was already 5 minutes after three – and he still had company from his last meeting.

"Do you think he'll be done soon?" asked Belle. She could just leave the tray, she would see him for dinner later anyway. But they hadn't missed a tea since his son died, and it seemed a shame not to wait if he'd only be a few more minutes.

"I'm not sure," Mary Margaret confided. "He's meeting with a partner from over-seas, and he didn't have an appointment."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, an old man in a wheel chair, a lady in a suit and a big, bulky guy. I don't know if I can say too much more than that..."

Belle understood; she was Mary Margaret's friend and her boss's girlfriend. It put them in an awkward place when his business intersected with their personal life. But the news made Belle feel better immediately. Suited woman, bulky man... she'd spotted them outside the Hotel earlier. His business absences really were business related, and all Belle could do was grin.

She was about to deposit the tea tray and leave when Regina Mills – the same woman who approached her so snidely in the elevator at the start of their whole "tea thing," as Mary Margaret called it – stormed in to Gold's private waiting area.

"You useless hussy!" shrieked the older, ebony-haired lady. Before Belle had a chance to respond or retaliate, Regina had seized her hair and was dragging her, despite Mary Margaret's pleas, toward Gold's office. The porcelain and tea spilled into a heap.

Belle was strong, but Regina was tall, and she had the advantage of momentum. The other woman managed to drag her bodily the several steps to the door and flung Belle into the room.

"You think you're going to force me out of my own company over some trussed up piece of pussy?"

The room erupted. Anthony and Regina were murderous, literally, and before Belle caught her balance the large man – a body guard, maybe? – had shoved her into Gold's en suite bathroom and locked the door.

Belle tried everything, even bruising her shoulder with leaning, to force her way out of the small room. The sounds of shouting, slamming, and breaking glass rang out like a war – terrifying her. Was Anthony OK? What the _hell_ was going on? Why wouldn't the goddamn door budge?

She was panicking. She knew she was panicking. The door had to open. She couldn't be locked away again. Panic. Breathe. Help Anthony. Escape. Prison. Papa. Not again, never again.

Belle flung herself against the door in a fit of near-hysteria and bounced backward from the effort, knocking herself unconscious against the white porcelain sink.


	23. Chapter 23

_Two updates in one day! It's like I suspected chapter 22 was going to piss everybody off or something. But hey, that's what happens when you tell a story about three people from two-person perspective: surprise! We only have a few more chapters to go, so – Time for Tea!_

It took close to 40 hours to sort out the debacle in Anthony's office once security hauled them all downstairs and called the police. Regina was still in custody for assault, and would most likely remain there until her profiteering and money-laundering hearing; as a member of the super-rich jet-set crowd, she embodied the definition of a flight risk.

Gold wore himself sick with worry, went into a frantic rage of worrying after Regina dragged Belle into his office by her lovely maple hair, but he assumed that she must be alright – either sequestered away in an interrogation room or at the hospital for some minor injury. It was when Mary Margaret visited him with his lawyer that he truly began to suffer.

Zoso and the female anti-trust litigation expert (whose name escaped him at the moment) had already been released, but both stayed in the area to testify at Regina's corporate corruption case. The only three remaining in custody were Zoso's bodyguard, Regina and himself. The three were not permitted to fraternize. But Mary Margaret 's words gave him pause: no one had heard from Belle since she left the office after the fighting broke out.

He had his personal lawyer and private investigator on the case within twenty minutes, but the police wouldn't do anything for another eight hours – and insisted that the basic follow-ups of her work place and home be investigated by friends and family before making a flustered, very likely upset, girlfriend their missing person priority.

Mary Margaret did the leg-work and Jefferson was booked on the next plane into town; he wasn't taking any chances. He _would_ find her. None of them had been in the office for close to three days when they convened to begin the search, but the cleaners had put everything back in its requisite place. The desk and chairs were righted, broken decanters replaced, and it looked like they'd sanitized his bathroom for good measure.

The police were still not taking them seriously, so Jefferson made some calls – shelters, hospitals, morgues. The word morgue made Anthony sick to his stomach. Where could she have possibly gone? Her credit cards hadn't been used in almost a week; her cellphone didn't have a charge; her apartment didn't look like it had been disturbed since they'd both spent the night there over the weekend.

Then came the security footage review. He didn't have cameras in his office, but they should be able to see her leaving from the executive lobby. She was easy to spot walking in – carrying their tea tray – but the it was like she'd vanished entirely.

Had Mary Margaret actually seen Belle leave? Had anybody?

Jefferson got a hit first, and Anthony fast-forwarded the footage, frantic to confirm. There she was. He'd found her. Nearly 30 hours after the police hauled them all off for questioning, a member of the cleaning staff raced out of his office, made a call, and half an hour later the EMTs were taking Belle away. Jefferson knew which hospital, Mary Margaret found the staff member. They sorted through the pieces on the ride over to her ward.

Gold raged. He needed to be declared Belle's emergency contact immediately; if something happened, he wanted to be the first person they called. Not knowing was hell.

She was found unconscious in the bathroom, with the door wedged shut by a toppled bookcase and a bleeding wound on her temple. To make matters worse, the administration wouldn't grant any of them permission to see her. Her father had arrived, and until she woke up she was not to have visitors.

Jefferson saved the day again, and Gold made a note to give him a bigger bonus this year. Belle had previous grievances against the man, had filed a restraining order during her later teen years. Jefferson's research in their short-lived hunt had been thorough, to say the very least.

Moe French saw reason, a sizable check, and a man hell-bent on getting him back out of his daughter's life as soon as possible. It didn't' matter what the restraining order was for – he knew that his little gypsy and her father had problems, and that he wouldn't let her wake up alone with only that man for company. He left peacefully, and Gold had Belle relocated to a private hospital in a nicer part of the city.

For the first eight hours of his vigil, all he could do was bark orders at Mary Margaret over the phone and alienate the nursing staff when they tried to make him shut it off. The next four hours were spent in fitful begging, holding her hand, and holding back tears of desperation as the myriad of machines and monitors indicated no changes.

Belle looked pale, and her hair was a mess, but he refused to let them cut it. The cut was on her temple and only barely grazed the hairline – no one was going to harm another hair on her head for as long as he had final say (and, since he was footing the bill, he would have the final say indefinitely).

The doctors assured him her surface wound would heal. As for the rest, well.. her neck wasn't broken, but there was definite swelling and it was too soon to tell if she was merely unconscious, concussed, or in a coma.

Gold woke up, leg raging, wearing the same suit he'd been arrested in despite Mary Margaret dropping of clean things, and three days unshaven. He'd passed out, finally, after about ten cups of coffee. Had laid with his head on Belle's bed, murdering his back in the process.

But none of that mattered, because he woke up to familiar fingers running through his long, lank hair, and Belle was smiling at him with a bandage over her cut. This had to be a dream.

He squeezed her hand. It was solid, warm.

"You're real," he stumbled over himself trying to rise, and ended up collapsing – nearly to the floor – with only the bed rail to support him. "You're alive.." He had to touch her to be certain, and once he did he didn't think he'd ever stop. That she wasn't dead in the ground, like Bae, meant everything to him. Regina could walk or hang – it meant _nothing_ without Belle.

"I'm here, I'm fine," Belle cried, with tears rolling down her cheeks. "How long...?"

"Three days. Or maybe four. Hell if I know. I'm so, so sorry. What happened? If Zoso's brute did this to you..."

"No. No, I think he was protecting me. I just... I panicked. I didn't know what was happening, and if she had a weapon, and I thought you could be dying out there, and then all that mess with papa... please, please promise not to let them shut me away again."

Belle was lost to him in a fit of tears, but he finally got the story out of her. The story about being held prisoner in her own house, and nearly starving. Her father would _not_ be walking away richer for his bother if Gold ever saw him again. Anthony stayed strong for her, wrapped her in his arms and chased away the nurses who liked to linger once they'd finished with their duties.

So she'd lapsed into a panic and knocked herself out, then lain undiscovered for hours until the police decided that they did not need access to the crime scene. He'd almost lost her over nothing more than negligence, and it would _not_ be happening again. Round the clock security. Good security. And more cameras, even if he had to pay Jefferson an exorbitant fee to monitor the closed-circuit feed personally.

Belle told him he was being silly, but did make him promise that he'd never let anyone lock her up again. She had to stay the night for observations and he had to bathe, to sleep. They parted ways a little past midnight.

Anthony vomited in the sink when he got home, just thinking about Belle being kept prisoner. It was horrible and tragic, even for only a few days; but those few days had nearly killed her, and clearly she was still suffering from it emotionally. It wasn't just the trauma or the fear, though. It was the raging guilt and self-loathing that ate him up like a demon gnawing its way out from inside.

He could very easily have broken both her dancing legs and taken the joy from her laughter. He'd come close. More than once, he'd come close, and wasn't just that he hadn't known her circumstances. Even if she hadn't survived that terrible thing once, keeping someone as light and airy as she locked away was tantamount to murder.

He didn't deserve her. Never had. But he wasn't letting go, either. He'd make it up to her. She might not know what kinds of things he was prone to thinking, but Belle trusted him and he was damned determined to earn it.

The next time he visited, Mary Margaret and Jefferson came with him. He made the introductions, and Belle seemed very pleased to see him – thanked Jefferson profusely for finding her. It was really a very lovely little reunion, until the doctor entered.

"Hello, Ms. French. I'm Dr. Whale, the head of cosmetic surgery. I thought you might want to do a little consultation before we schedule you for scar removal treatments."

"Scar removal?" Belle asked. "It's not a big mark, won't it just heal naturally?"

"Well, certainly, it will heal. But we're talking about beauty. A chance to freshen up that face. You do look lovely for a woman approaching 30, but I can do the eyelids and a little collagen while you're under – most of our clients prefer to lump their treatments..."

Gold cut him off and ordered him from the room.

"Did that man say his name was Dr. Whale?" asked Jefferson.

"I think so," Belle offered.

"Hrm... Mr. Gold, Ms. French, Ms. Blanchard, will you excuse me? There's something I need to follow up on."

"Everything OK, Jefferson?" Anthony wasn't going to let him go without an explanation, not if it could adversely affect his Belle.

"Just a hunch," he shrugged. "I'll call you when I know something."

When Jefferson and Mary Margaret left, Belle turned to him, smiling. "Do you think I need plastic surgery?"

He kissed her breathless, and called her Beauty until she threatened to have the nurses remove him. God he loved this woman.


	24. Chapter 24

_Marquesa de Santos, Moments Spent Elsewhere, and Paulawer – you guys stayed with me since day one on this fic, so this penultimate chapter is dedicated to you. This is it, guys and gals, we're nearly through – here's the second to last Tea._

They did remarkably well in the days leading up to the deposition. Anthony took it upon himself to play the part of a care-taker, working from home and taking on two junior associates to handle some of the load. He kept Belle in bed for two days, under observation per the doctor's orders, and before Belle had a chance to object he'd filled half of his close and two dressers with an assortment of new clothes.

"Anthony, I do own clothing," Belle teased him. "At most I needed someone to pick up a pair of jeans and some clean shirts from my apartment. All of this is unnecessary."

"You can't blame me, dearie. If it were up to me, you'd never leave."

Belle winced at that, and he immediately regretted his wording. "What I'm trying to say," he continued, "is that I'd like you to consider moving in with me."

"Oh, Ant..." She sounded like she was about to say no, but the sunny smile on her face told him he might stand a chance.

"Hear me out. Your lease is up soon, and I don't mind paying the fees for an early release. I got everything I thought you'd need for a three-day recovery, and realized that I... that I want you to stay with me. Permanently. I want you here, and I didn't know how to ask you short of a bribe." He gestured grandly to the clothes and closet space.

"I don't know, you made a pretty good case for yourself just now. We could return the clothes and you could try asking without the bribe?"

"Don't push your luck, French."

"I'll think about it. It sounds wonderful, and if I was allowed to move quickly I'd be jumping up and down to kiss you right now. But –"

"But?" He needed her to say yes. This wasn't supposed to be a no-thank-you kind of question.

"_But_," Belle started again, "I need to finish up the project at work and you need to stay on top of Regina's case. So how about I keep my apartment, you stop buying me things, and we'll give it a trial-run?"

"So you'll stay?" He was climbing onto the bed, looking like a man who very much intended to kiss his woman silly.

"I'll stay. But stop wasting mone-"

Anthony kissed her before she could finish. He'd promise not to spoil her, if she pressed it, but that was the kind of promise that begged for a good breaking. The doctors told her to take it easy for a few days, no swift movements, nothing that could conceivably give her a case of whip-lash. So far, that meant no sex, but Gold was happy to see her spread out on his bed like a princess while he worshiped her and got do all the work for a change.

They made love – softly, slowly – and while it wasn't the earth-shattering frenzy they usually achieved, both were perfectly content to enjoy a long, pleasant encounter wrapped up in the other one's body.

By the time Regina made her statements and the mud started slinging, their lives were far less idyllic and lazy.

"He's been gunning for me since I made a comment about his _inappropriate_ relationship with an _employee_. Anthony Gold will do or say anything to force me out of our company; his allegations are baseless, and I refuse to let him sully my good name for the sake of some _unprofessional_ vendetta. That woman constituted a security risk, as I demonstrated with the so-called Manilla Envelope Incident, and it needed to be addressed.

This man, this c_omrade_ Nikolai Zoso, is running a scam. He _alleges_ that I've been channeling funds away from my substantial charities and using his freight company to smuggle gold bullion back into the country, then using it to inflate the share-prices in my subsidiaries. You see? I said it. I'm not afraid. Because _he is lying_. Perjury is a federal crime in the United States, Mr. Zoso, and I expect you'll be finding that out the hard way.

He and Anthony are in this together, they have a history. Mr. Gold is trying to defame and defraud me, based on a personal grudge that has absolutely no bearing on my ability or integrity as a businesswoman."

Belle could recite the entire speech verbatim now. She'd heard it in person, obviously, but the whole thing also appeared the next morning, printed simultaneously in every news paper in the city and quoted on every news broadcast program at length. She even clipped out a copy from the Times that had an unflattering picture of Anthony with some blonde, leggy woman climbing into his town car – dated from the weekend of her symposium.

_That_ had certainly been a pleasant conversation to share over dinner. He'd said he was going to see other women, and wasn't obligated to make apologies for it, but... it was awkward. The woman was crawling into his lap, and they were clearly tipsy. Anthony preferred to look on the bright side – at least the papers weren't splashing out photos of Belle's face.

They were working through it, but tempers sometimes boiled over. Then there was the whole sordid history of he and Regina Mills' in-fighting.

"Explain it to me again, Ant, because I'm just not seeing how this whole debacle isn't like two kids fighting over toys in the playground."

"She was _rude_ to you."

"So you..."

"Implied that she had more than enough dirty laundry of her own to keep her busy."

"And then she probably-"

"She _did,_" Gold insisted.

"OK. And then she started spreading rumors about our afternoon teas. So you sized her property-"

"I delayed some shipments. Let's avoid the melodrama, dearie."

"I'm not arguing semantics with you tonight. You interfered with her, financially. Agreed? Good. And then she apparently tried to black mail you, through me, with that photograph of Mr. Zoso."

"Yes."

"And _that_ prompted you to start an anti-trust case and have her forced out of your company?"

"Well it is my company. But I think you'll recall that she dragged you into my office by your hair and took a swing at me. We're past pleasantries, and the money-laundering charges have the benefit of being true. Nick used some of his contacts, and the pieces fell into place. Not that their _not_ being true would necessarily..." He was fidgeting with his phone as he spoke, clearly not feeling guilty.

"That's what I'm talking about, Anthony! I don't tell you how to run your business. If you want her gone, then get rid of her. But stop _lying_. Everything about this fight you're having is somehow related back to me, and it's just not worth it. I'm fine. You don't need to ruin her life, it's too extreme."

They had this argument a lot lately, it seemed. He took the high ground, like always. Thought he was being very magnanimous by working through legitimate channels instead of letting Zoso's men take a few swings on the pier at night.

"You are the closest thing to family I have, Belle. I need to protect you, and that includes from Regina."

"You don't need to protect me like this, though. I never wanted-"

Anthony slammed down his phone, turned on his heel, and stalked away. Belle loved him. She really, really did. But he was such a stubborn jackass sometimes, it left her reeling. He didn't _need_ to do all this for her, Belle didn't want to be the reason behind ruining someone else's life.

Gold was gone for about ten minutes – probably out for a drive – when his phone rang. Belle planned to let it go to voice mail, but she saw Jefferson's name and answered instead. She and Anthony hadn't seen much of him since the first time they'd met at the hospital, and if he was calling this late it had to be important.

"Hi Jefferson. Yes, it's Belle. I'm feeling fine, thanks! I'm sorry, but I think he's out blowing off some steam.. yeah, the Mills case. Oh? Do you want to call back and leave a message? Jefferson, Ant and I are in a kind of tough place right now, I don't know if hearing your mystery-news from me would necessarily... Fine. Fine, yes. Yes, I'll grab a pen."

Jefferson had confirmed his suspicions within two hours of leaving behind the over-zealous plastic surgeon in Belle's hospital suite. Confirmed, but not confided. He wasn't sure if this was the kind of thing he ought to tell Mr. Gold, considering...

He had to be certain first. Jefferson had worked for Mr. Gold for the last 3 years, and he believed the reason Gold hired him (when his old P.I. was stagnating) was because of his daughter. Grace spent 8 months in the care of a lovely couple from Quebec; they said they'd adopted her, from a wonderfully polite and well-respected agency.

Of course, that didn't change the fact that the little girl had been kidnapped. She was too young to know any better, but Jefferson – with his particular penchant for observation and finding things – never gave up hope. He looked at the odds, laughed in their face, and brought his daughter _home_.

It was easy to believe your child was alive, until someone produced a body. And they _had_ produced Baelfire Gold's body. Unfortunately, they'd also cremated it and laid the ashes to rest in the ground. But there was no earthly reason why a plastic surgeon would have signed off on the autopsy. He hadn't noticed it at first, completely missed that the man whose name and initials covered the paperwork was not, in fact, part of the morgue or forensic team.

No one would let a man with Whale's record anywhere near a highly-decayed, partially pulverized body. Not unless that someone wanted to compromise the coroner's report and fake the DNA testing. Someone who saw Gold as an enemy, and who had sway over the medical staff... Regina Mills, maybe? That hospital had an entire wing named after her family, it wasn't beyond her means.

He couldn't prove her involvement. Not really. But it was a good hunch, and probably accurate. If it was just a matter of implicating Regina in what he could only define as psychological torture, he would have spoken immediately. No, that wasn't the proof he needed.

He needed proof that mattered to a father. If he didn't have evidence – real, tangible evidence – that Baelfire Gold was alive and well somewhere, he couldn't tell his employer. He couldn't tell anybody. Gold had grieved, found some small measure of peace from thinking his son had died nearly 10 years prior instead of simply not calling or writing.

It wasn't much, but he'd finally found something. Thanks to a recent appeal at the U.K. embassy (being legally dead could change things), Jefferson had a name.

He felt instantly relieved when Belle answered his call instead of Anthony. If anyone could explain without sending him into a murderous rampage, she was that lady.


	25. Chapter 25

Anthony didn't come back home until after three in the morning, but Belle was in the kitchen – waiting. She had a pot of coffee nearly half-emptied, and a measure of whiskey sitting in a rocks glass on the table. Gold knew something was wrong – more wrong than he anticipated. Belle didn't care for his Scotch, and she rarely drank coffee. They were tea people; coffee meant something serious afoot.

"You stayed up for me, dearie?" He braced himself for the worst. Gold's brain failed spectacularly to articulate what his gut was telling him: it's over, she's leaving. He could give up on the Mill case, if she insisted, but he couldn't let Regina continue to sabotage him from inside his own company.

"We need to talk."

Shit. Here it comes. "What about?"

"I... I did a bad thing."

Well that was... unexpected. "What _bad thing_?"

"We should probably start at the beginning. Coffee? Whiskey?"

"Cup of tea?"

Belle nodded and busied herself about their kitchen, spooning leaves into an infuser and flipping on the electric kettle. "First, and this is important, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've been so impossible about the case with Regina. I didn't think it was fair for you to ruin her life on my behalf, but... and this is too little too late, and you might not care when I tell you the rest of it, and I don't-"

"Belle, love. Breathe."

"Jefferson called."

"Oh?" She handed him his tea.

"Do you remember that plastic surgeon at the hospital?" she asked, running a fingertip over the small scar at her temple.

"The presumptuous nitwit? I was wondering what Jefferson wanted. Wait. Belle, if you're telling me that this business with Regina culminated in that man trying to mutilate-"

"No. God no. I don't think he knew who I was, really. I think he's just an idiot. It's... it's worse than that, actually."

"I very much doubt it, but _please_ stop stepping around it. Whatever it is, we'll handle it. Just tell me."

"It's about your son." Belle traded her coffee for the glass of whiskey, and downed what remained in a single gulp.

He couldn't have heard that right. "What?"

"Jefferson said he recognized the name – Dr. Whale – from the coroner's report. And it's not a common name, so he cross-checked it, and it's the same man who signed off on all of the lab work they did identifying Bae. Same hospital. There's not... there's not any reason why a plastic surgeon would be involved in any of that, unless... unless he was falsifying things."

"So Bae might be... alive?"

"There's no way to tell for certain, since they cremated the remains. But maybe. He could be. Jefferson says he got a new lead-"

"I'm going to crucify that doctor," Gold growled, but he was smiling. Tears started rolling down Belle's cheeks. Gold scooped Belle up into a tight hug, and crushed her to his chest. "Belle, Belle, it's OK. You're part of this family, Bae being alive changes nothing between you and me."

"That's not it..." she replied, sobbing. "I did a bad thing. And I'm not sorry, but I think you'll hate me."

"Tell me."

"Jefferson said he couldn't prove it, but... he's reasonably sure from his surveillance that Regina paid Whale off to fake the documents. And that she-"

The pieces all started to make sense to him, suddenly.

"I'll kill her." Anthony let loose an anguished scream, and stumbled to his feet. He went with his first instinct, to start smashing things, and let loose on with his cane on several ceramic plates. His senses were very nearly overwhelmed by rage until he heard Belle speaking, pulling him back from the edge.

"...don't need to bother, because I took care of it already. I'm sorry. Ant, come back to me. I'm sorry." Her eyes were still wet, but there was a certain hardness there that Gold rarely got to see. This was his indomitable, fighting gypsy. He calmed down a little, and held her gaze.

"What did you say?"

"I... was looking for you earlier. I thought you might be with Nikolai, so I called him. And you weren't there, but he was implying... he was implying he'd like it very much if something tragic happened to Regina, but that you didn't agree. Didn't agree because of me. And I... I told him the truth about Bae. Then we exchanged pleasantries and I hung up."

"Do you know what you've done?" Gold's fist clenched, his body became deathly still.

" I think... I think I gave consent for Regina to have a very unpleasant accident. I don't know – it was kind of oblique. I'm not sorry for that. I'm _not_. But I am sorry I.. it wasn't my right. I never should have taken that decision away from you, but you're my _family_. She can come after me all she wants, Ant, but Bae's funeral nearly _killed_ you. If she wants to hurt you again, she's got to get through me. I love you so much, and she almost took you away-"

Gold pulled her into a deep kiss before she could finish. She'd work herself into hysterics at this rate, and they couldn't both be inconsolable on the same night. Not when everything finally felt right. When she was quiet and wrapped safely in his arms, he spoke again: "You're not a killer yet, if that's what's bothering you. Zoso's not that heavy-handed when the stakes are high. But there are lots of tragic things – abduction comes to mind. Or maybe he'll just arrange for her to serve her a life-sentence in solitary confinement. Never can tell with Nikolai."

Belle shuddered. "I used to say I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy, but in Regina's case..."

"Good. Let Zoso have her, then. She owes every syndicate in Europe money from that money laundering fiasco we uncovered, you're doing him a favor, really. It won't end that badly, you'll see."

"You're lying, to make it easier on me, aren't you?"

"...yes. Yes, I suppose I am."

"I love you," she said again. She looked scared, a little unsure, and entirely disheveled.

"Aye. And I love you, too." He hugged her. They still had work to do, but there would be time for all of that. There would be time for everything.

Belle hated the uncertainty of it all. Nothing resolved, not entirely; only the surface ripples ever changed. Regina's case was nothing more than a memory – they'd won it, easily – and her fate still remained something of a mystery. It wouldn't be pretty, whatever it was, and there was no guarantee that the police wouldn't come knocking at her door some day with questions for her and Anthony.

She could live with it. She loved a man whose past and present inhabited dark places, but they changed each other – in good ways. Where she made him kinder, he made her brave. And they didn't live in a land of enchantments and faeries; sometimes hard choices had to be made. Immoral choices. Choices that weren't really choices at all, but sinful luxuries of the wealthy.

It said something profound about her, she thought, that she didn't feel guilty. Surely Regina Mills had a family, friends, someone who would miss her and eventually make inquiries. They would face it when it came, together, and that was the important thing.

Anthony was sweet, and he loved her. He was also in denial if he thought she didn't see the ring he kept in his coat pocket and fidgeted with when she wasn't supposed to be looking. It would be nice, being married, if he ever worked up his courage to actually ask her. Belle could wait. She wasn't with him for the wedding, though she was sure – if they ever had one – it would be unfathomably nice. Probably one of her best future memories, even though they didn't have a date (or an engagement) in sight.

For now, they were just living their lives. Tonight, that meant attending Belle's presentation of _Lovers Embrace_ at the Metropolitan Museum. She'd invited Bae, or the person they thought was Bae, without telling Anthony. She didn't like to see him disappointed when no one came. After their original overtures went unrequited, he seemed to accept that they might not reconcile – even if his son was alive after all.

It wasn't just that he'd grieved and moved on, though that was part of it. His son had now spent as many years with his father as apart from him – soon the majority of Baelfire's life would be that of the independent runaway. Her love wasn't giving up hope, not ever, but he was able to accept that his son was – if not with him – at least happy somewhere, not in need. Happy, and living.

He told her once, as he held her and they chatted away towards dawn, that he wasn't even sure he'd recognize the boy. Bae bore more in common with his mother, Gail, as a child, and Gail ha aged poorly before turning to plastic surgery.

Belle saw the world a little differently, with an artist's eyes. She knew Ant's every crease and quirk, had memorized his face and committed it to paper more times than she could count. It was peaking out at her from the imps adoring her canvas, in the hands of the satyrs as they held their ladies.

It was in the slightly crooked smile of the young man who approached them in the lobby.

"Hello," he said.

_Fin_.


End file.
